


As Time Goes By

by teatales



Series: As Time Goes By [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Human, Aromantic Crowley (Good Omens), Coming Out, Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Genderqueer Crowley (Good Omens), Getting Together, Grayromantic Crowley (Good Omens), Housewife Aziraphale, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Marriage Proposal, Medium Burn, Minor Original Character(s), Miscommunication, Nonbinary Crowley (Good Omens), Other, Queer Themes, Romance, Trans Aziraphale (Good Omens), Trans Female Character, Travelling Salesman Crowley, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27875086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teatales/pseuds/teatales
Summary: Mr Anthony Crowley was fine with being alone. He had his car and his plants and his career as a travelling salesman, and it was fine. Even with his awful new bosses, he had no plans to quit selling watches anytime soon. What else would he do?Mrs Aziraphale Ingels had been stuck in Tadfield ever since her husband passed away a year ago. She tried her best not to dwell on how lonely she felt as she filled her days with books and baking while waiting for the inheritance to be finalised. Only then could she consider what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.A chance meeting, a blossoming friendship, and Aziraphale and Crowley soon find themselves falling in love with the stranger they met only a few months ago. But neither believe the other could ever love them back, and both have things they're terrified to share.As Time Goes Byis a timeless romance set in the 1950s about acceptance, being less alone than you think, and watch-related puns.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: As Time Goes By [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2085753
Comments: 84
Kudos: 78
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. A

**Author's Note:**

> this was my project for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) 2020, and I'm so excited to be sharing it! It's mostly written and I'll be attempting to post every week. Any major warnings will be in the notes before each chapter. You can find my longer author's note (aka my rambles) here on my tumblr: <https://ineffable-anathema.tumblr.com/atgb>
> 
> title from the song by Herman Hupfeld
> 
> cw: deceased husband and associated grief

Mrs Aziraphale Ingels woke up at precisely five past six, as she had done for most mornings of her adult life. For a moment her eyes remained closed and she attempted to gather the strength she needed to face another day. Aziraphale rolled over to face her husband and tell him about the wonderful dream she had been having about the two of them, only to find the bed cold and empty. As she woke up properly she realised that he wasn’t there and then remembered why.

Aziraphale rolled back over and sighed, then chastised herself for being so melancholy so early in the morning. It was a new day and anything was possible, but she wasn’t going to find out if she just moped about in bed. She got up and put on her slippers and housecoat, then shuffled down the hall to the bathroom. She would feel better once she had her face on.

In the bathroom, Aziraphale tried not to look too closely in the mirror as she put on her makeup. She had an awful habit of criticising her appearance—picking it apart for all the flaws she saw. It was harder to be confident without Georgie around.

Over the past half year Aziraphale also thought she had grown to look quite old and weary. Appropriate for a widow, she mused, but as she was yet to be thirty, she found the thought quite depressing. She smoothed her curls into place as best she could—they tended to spring up all over, no matter what she did, and nodded to herself. That had indeed made her feel better.

Moving to the kitchen, Aziraphale put the kettle on and went to fetch the newspaper and milk from the front door. A cup of tea and the morning’s crossword were, in her opinion, a perfect start to the day. She knew it was quite dull by other people’s standards, but she had always been a bit of a homebody.

Fortunately for her, none of her neighbours seemed out and about as of yet. It’s not that Aziraphale disliked them, of course—she tried not to dislike anyone—but they were an awfully cheery bunch, no matter the time of day. It was a little exhausting to be around.

The kettle just started to whistle as she found her pen and set the newspaper down. Aziraphale hummed to herself a little, some snippet of a tune she must have heard on the radio. She adored the radio, the dramas especially, but thought a quiet hour or two in the morning allowed her thoughts to settle.

It also gave her something to do, to work her way through the pot of tea and the crossword.

She didn’t like thinking about it too often, but Aziraphale Ingels felt rather stuck in Tadfield. Her husband had died quite suddenly and now she was left to rattle around in her big, empty house. There were some issues with the will—if the lawyer wasn’t a long time friend of Georgie’s she would have thought she was being swindled—so she was waiting, and waiting, for the payments to come through. Only then was she going to let herself consider what she was going to do with the rest of her life.

Aziraphale shook her head and sipped her tea. It wouldn’t bear thinking about. She just had to keep on keeping on, go about her routine, and be patient.

If only it were that easy.

* * *

After the dishes had been put away—Aziraphale started on a scone after her first cup—and the newspaper had been set aside, she went and got dressed. She selected one of her favourites from her wardrobe—a pretty light blue gingham thing with detailing around the collar and pockets—that she thought managed an attempt at flattering her full figure and bringing out her eyes.

Aziraphale brushed her teeth and mentally revised her schedule for the day, which consisted mostly of cooking and cleaning, like most other days. It really was a lot of work to maintain the house alone—she didn’t know how all those other women did it, without any help from their husbands. Georgie had always…

No, Aziraphale told herself. He wouldn’t want you being so sad, let alone over him. She smoothed down her skirts and marched back to the kitchen. She needed a distraction.

Aziraphale tied an apron around her waist and began to set out the ingredients for a madeira cake. It was one of her favourites, and a neighbour had generously given her a few of their lemons. It was one of the better things she had received in her mourning period. Aziraphale knew she wasn’t the most skilled at savoury cooking, but some of the gifted dishes had been inedible. She also had a bit of a black thumb and knew better than to try and grow anything as ambitious as that. She did wish she could be closer to _some_ of her neighbours, like the Dawsons who had given her the fruit, but she knew it was impossible. Or if not impossible, unwise at the very least.

Making the cake was almost automatic at this point and fortunately it cleared her head of all those pesky thoughts that had been running around since she had woken up. Doing something with her hands always had that benefit, which reminded Aziraphale of the socks she had been knitting. Unfortunately for her, she knew better than to settle into her knitting now—half the day would disappear and she would be none the wiser. So she began to tidy the kitchen instead as the cake cooked and turned on the radio to keep her company.

Sometime later as Aziraphale swept, a loud knock came at the front door. She paused and frowned. She hadn’t been expecting anyone that day. Aziraphale sighed and set the broom down and untied her apron. Hopefully it would be quick, she didn’t want the cake to burn.

She checked her reflection in the hall mirror and then quickly walked to answer the door, first looking through the little keyhole.

It was a man in a suit. That meant it could be anyone.

Aziraphale opened it and attempted a pleasant smile, which turned genuine as she met the stranger’s amber eyes.

Oh.

Something Aziraphale hadn’t felt in a long time rushed through her. He was _handsome._ He wore a lovely dark suit—perfectly cut to his slim figure—and a rather fetching hat set over his shockingly red hair. In his hand was a large leather case.

After this quick visual sweep her gaze reached up again to look at his face. Aziraphale didn’t know what it was that made his combination of features so entrancing but she had to stop herself from staring. And from thinking inappropriate thoughts, which rather shocked her. She mentally shook herself. This was a stranger, who knew who he was? Moreover, she was being rude.

“Hello, can I help you?” She asked, slightly concerned that he had yet to speak.

“Oh!” The stranger said and switched the case to his other hand, offering to shake hers.

“My name is Crowley. Anthony Crowley. I’m a representative of Sedah Watches, keeping time since nineteen twenty-nine, we like to say. I’m here today to offer you a wonderful deal on some beautiful timepieces.”

Aziraphale shook his hand, surprised at how soft it was. She nearly didn’t let it go but then remembered herself and smoothed down her skirts nervously.

“I can’t say that I’m looking for a new watch at the moment, Mr Crowley.”

Why did she choose to be honest _now?_ That would almost certainly guarantee that he’ll leave and she’ll never see him again!

“That’s perfectly fine, Mrs…?”

“Oh, goodness me, I didn’t even give you my name!” Aziraphale chuckled, embarrassed at her conduct. “Mrs Ingels, Aziraphale Ingels.”

Mr Crowley’s smile grew wider. “Mrs Ingels. There’s simply no obligation to buy, though I can’t help but notice your bare wrist. I merely want to show you what we have to offer and then, perhaps in future, if you do require a timepiece, you’ll think of us. Does that sound reasonable?”

He was quite charming, as well as handsome. Aziraphale knew he wasn’t exactly wise to invite a stranger in—let alone a _salesman—_ but… She wanted to.

“It does, Mr Crowley. Won’t you please come in?”

Aziraphale stepped back and to the side to let him in, and gestured to the hat and coat rack for him to deposit his accessories. He did so and followed her to the sitting room. Aziraphale did her best not to stare at the now exposed red hair. It shined so beautiful in the light.

Aziraphale tried to get a hold of herself. Perhaps it was just because she had been so alone since Georgie had passed. Maybe that’s why she was so flustered.

Mr Crowley set down his case on the coffee table and opened it up, pulling out a catalogue and display set of various watch pieces.

“Would you like a drink, Mr Crowley? Perhaps a cup of tea?” She asked as she hovered next to a chair.

“No thanks, I’m fine,” he assured her with that same damn grin again.

Aziraphale nodded and sank carefully into the chair and once again smoothed down her dress over her crossed legs. Though they were sitting on different furniture she felt incredibly close to him. It was… intimate, somehow.

“Now as I said, Sedah Watches was founded in nineteen twenty-nine and we’ve been selling affordable, quality timepieces ever since. We have pieces in all styles and in all price ranges, men’s and ladies’, and I simply guarantee you’ve never had a watch like this before.” He added with a wink. How cheeky!

She couldn’t help but smile as he began his pitch. Oh, he was very good. But she refused to be taken in by it. She had heard the rumours about these sorts of salesmen—travelling salesmen, especially—but it was fun to listen to all the same.

He passed her the catalogue and she dutifully began to examine it as he narrated the various finishes, styles, and models available. Aziraphale did her best to listen to the words but the soothing sounds of Mr Crowley’s simply washed over her.

“Now tell me, how recently did you purchase your own wristwatch?”

Aziraphale’s hand flew to her bare wrist and she flushed with embarrassment. “I gave it away!”

Mr Crowley blinked at her. “You what?”

Aziraphale shut the catalogue close on her lap and wrung her hands together. “Oh, well, a local girl needed some money for a medical procedure, so I gave it to her to pawn. It wasn’t of great importance to me and it’s not as if _I_ particularly needed it, with how little I leave the house these days…” She trailed off, unsure as to what the salesman’s reaction would be.

He continued to look at her with shock, then something closer to… amazement?

“Wow, you really are an angel.”

It was like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water onto her head. Aziraphale _knew_ she should have been more suspicious of him, she shouldn’t have let her guard down like that.

“I think it might be best if you leave, Mr Crowley,” Aziraphale said frostily. What was worse is that she _liked_ him calling her that, but she knew she couldn’t entertain such notions. Or shouldn’t, anyway.

They stared at one another for a moment. “What-?” He asked, obviously concerned, then professionalism took over once more. “I mean, of course, Mrs Ingels, anything you want.”

He hastily packed up his belongings into his case.

As she handed the catalogue back to him their fingers brushed and Aziraphale immediately looked away, ashamed at how much that simple touch thrilled her.

Mr Crowley all but tripped over his feet as Aziraphale bustled him over to the door. She ensured he picked up his hat and coat—no need to give him an excuse to return—and opened the front door.

It was pouring with rain.

He didn’t seem to notice or, if he did, wasn’t too concerned about the deluge, as he made to go without any comment or fuss. Just a simple tip of his hat and he turned around.

Aziraphale bit her lip, feeling slightly guilty. “Wait!” She called out before he had reached the end of the awning.

She ducked and grabbed the large white umbrella that was resting in the nearby urn. She offered it to him by the handle.

Mr Crowley had turned back at her call but didn’t come any closer. “Mrs Ingels, it really isn’t nece-”

“I insist,” she said firmly and kept holding out the umbrella.

He walked back the few steps and carefully took hold of it. He nodded at her again. “Thank you.” She let go.

In a moment the umbrella was up and Mr Crowley disappeared down the street, a white blob on top of a dark streak walking into the distance.

Aziraphale watched him until he turned the corner and she could no longer see him, then closed the door.

She turned and pressed her back against it, sighing to herself. What a mess that was. What a mess _she_ was. Aziraphale hoped she did the right thing, both in sending Mr Crowley away and in giving him the umbrella.

She couldn’t risk such affection with a strange man. She knew he almost certainly wasn’t flirting with a girl like her, but the compliment still was far too familiar.

But his eyes. They had been so kind.

Only then did the smell of something burning reach her. “Oh!”

Aziraphale flew to the kitchen as she realised she had forgotten all about the cake in the oven.

She pulled on the oven mitts and opened the door, coughing at the small amount of smoke that wooshed out into the kitchen. Aziraphale took out the cake and banged it down onto the stove top. It wasn’t very pretty, but she hoped if she cut off the charred top it would still be edible. She hated food going to waste, especially when the lemons had been a gift.

Aziraphale switched off the oven and cracked open the window enough to let the smell of burnt sugar escape, but not let the rain in.

She pulled out a chair and all but collapsed into it. She wished Georgie was there to tell her what to do. He always gave her the best advice. A tiny chuckle left her lips as she recalled her thoughts from the beginning of the morning.

So much for a usual day.


	2. C

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's thoughts on their first meeting, and his thrill at their second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: parental death (brief, a long time ago), minor discussion of WWII/mention of deaths and destruction thereof, a small amount of internalised homophobia/queerphobia

“I’m not a con, I promise! If you could spare only a few minutes of your time I have a great—” _SLAM!_ “—deal for you,” Crowley finished weakly.

Usually by the time of the third door slam of a morning he would be itching for a smoke, although Crowley had quit a while ago because of how foul they made his precious Bentley smell. Only one thing, one angel, meant the cruelty of his job didn’t quite reach the core of him without the vice. Mrs Ingels.

* * *

Crowley’s day had started like any other. He had rolled out of bed long after the sun had risen, pulled on his robe and stumbled to make a cup of coffee. Only after the first dose of caffeine did his brain kickstart and he began to mentally review his route for the day.

Once he felt awake enough he dared to venture onto his balcony to collect the newspaper. It had taken some convincing (and bribing) of the paper boy to get it thrown up to his flat instead of dropping it downstairs with the others, but Crowley thought it was more than worth it. It meant he didn’t have to risk interactions with his neighbours when collecting it from the front desk, nor did he have to get dressed in any way that was decent enough to be seen in public. It was perfect.

Crowley poured a second cup and settled down to start the crossword. He usually did the easiest clues first, then took it with him on the road for the day. Nothing like a good drive to get the brain thinking.

He got dressed in one of his many black suits—little variety meant increased efficiency. Crowley was set to sell to Tadfield in the next few weeks. It seemed like a nice enough area; quiet, a little bit posh. Perfect for targeting the checkbooks of many the unsuspecting husband.

Before he left he checked on his plants to ensure they were all behaving themselves. It took a lot of discipline for them to survive when he was so often on the road, but they knew better than to disappoint him.

Crowley grabbed his case and hat as he made his way out the door and to his car, expecting nothing out of the ordinary.

* * *

The first half-dozen houses were unremarkable. It was the average mix of no answers, no thanks yous, and the few people who listened to his pitch. Even fewer were those who placed an order. It wasn’t necessarily the most rewarding work but Crowley enjoyed sales as much as he could. He was a natural, really, and liked the fact that he wasn’t stuck in some office somewhere. Especially the Sedah head office—his bosses were a nightmare. But unfortunately for him, door to door selling didn’t seem to be taking in as much money as it used to. Watches, especially. Most brands—unlike theirs—were mostly built to last. They weren’t a product people needed to buy again and again. Crowley didn’t really have any other options so here he was, knocking on doors and trying to convince people out of their hard earned money.

Most of the time he didn’t count how many houses he visited. Technically he was meant to for his reporting, but he was so good at fudging it his bosses didn’t notice. Or they didn’t care. But that day Crowley noted the fact that it was the seventh house he approached that morning that was home to an angel.

It felt like being struck by lightning when he caught sight of the woman on the other side of the door. She was so beautiful. It’s not as if Crowley had never seen a beautiful woman before, but none had ever made him feel like _that_.

His heart pounded in his chest and he did his best not to faint. He had no idea what it was. She was almost his height, in a flattering blue dress that accentuated her curves. Her hair was so blonde it was almost white, in small curls all around her face. That, with her round pink cheeks and lips meant she looked like an angel.

Somehow Crowley pulled himself together enough to introduce himself and start his usual pitch. He made an obvious misstep, somewhere, and all too soon he was being shooed out the door.

He didn’t really mind, if he were honest. He didn’t think a woman like that would have the time of day for him in the first place.

But obviously he hadn’t offended her _too_ greatly or possibly she truly was that good of a person, because he was sent off with her very own umbrella as he left.

Crowley thought they had a connection. Or hoped they had a connection. Or thought that somehow, someway, he might be able to… win her over? Befriend her? He didn’t know what he was thinking, but he just had to see her again. At the very least, to apologise for making her so uncomfortable.

As he sunk into the plush leather seats of the Bentley, Crowley glanced over at the umbrella in the foot well next to his. A plan was beginning to take shape in his mind.

* * *

Crowley had never believed in chance. He’d never believed in fate. With a life like his, it didn’t bear thinking about whether he was part of some predetermined great plan that meant everything was ineffable.

But he couldn’t help feel like he had been in the right place at the right time, for once in his long, awful life. Meeting Mrs Ingels felt like a wake up call.

After all, Crowley had never thought he’d end up at almost thirty walking for a _door to door watch sellers._ It was a little ridiculous, even he could admit that.

He had been an only child, to older parents. They had both passed when Crowley was seven and he was subsequently taken in by his aunt and uncle. He was raised amongst a gaggle of cousins and, although he was firmly in the middle in years, he was treated as the baby. Crowley had never liked the rough and tumble sort of play they enjoyed. He’d rather sit and listen to the radio, or watch his aunt embroider.

As he had grown up he began to learn more about the existence of the ‘family business’ which he was gently encouraged to join once he came of age. His uncle saw his potential, which Crowley didn’t particularly understand at that age, so he did his best to run away from that. He asked too many questions and was considered too soft for what a man was supposed to be. He didn’t yet know what he wanted to do, but he certainly didn’t want to be _told_ what to do, let alone from his relations. They took care of him as they did their own children, but it wasn’t the same.

Then the war came.

His uncle and older cousins were often away in the city, while the rest of them remained at home. Crowley still wasn’t sure what they had been doing. He thinks part of it might have been to do with rations, but he didn’t like thinking about it too much.

Crowley did attempt to enlist, once. He knew was too young at not yet sixteen but somehow he had convinced himself that it was the right thing to do. Besides, things had become so boring at home, with so little to do and so little to eat.

He had snuck away to the conscription office with his peach fuzz lightly coloured in in the hopes that it would make him look older. He was all but laughed out of there—not only for his age, but for skinny build and poor eyes. It’s not as if it was _his_ fault that he was like that. Crowley had gotten a bad bout of the flu at about ten and the doctor said it had ‘stunted his growth’. He wanted to serve queen and country like everyone else but he was firmly rejected.

Unfortunately, his younger cousins caught him sneaking back into the house and wouldn’t let him return to his bedroom before he told them where he had been. Even at thirteen and ten they laughed at the idea.

“Someone like _you_ wouldn’t be allowed into the army, Tony!” Belle said through a fit of giggles. “You! As a soldier!”

He stormed off to his room and sulked. He didn’t tell his aunt but he had the suspicion she knew anyway, although she never mentioned it.

Eventually it was over, and Crowley was expected to be an adult. A lot of men his age were settling down, finding a girl, and getting married. It seemed to partly be a reaction to the war, to the horrors and death everyone had witnessed. Crowley had never particularly been interested in dating. Sure, women were wonderful. They were nice to look at and nice to talk to. But the things he heard the others boys say just… never applied to him. Never fully, anyway, or often. Worse still, he found himself feeling the ways he was supposed to about girls, about boys, sometimes. Crowley had enough sense to know how wrong that was and never mentioned it to anyone.

He didn’t want to lead _anyone_ on if he couldn’t sustain those romantic feelings that seemed required for marriage. He didn’t really feel comfortable entering that sort of relationship when he had all these queer feelings to contend with, also. So he never talked about it, and did little more than take a few girls dancing.

Somehow he stumbled into a career in sales. His uncle had recommended the position, though he assured Crowley it had no links to the family business. Crowley didn’t particularly _want_ to go into sales, but he didn’t particularly want to do anything besides smoke and listen to his records. He sort of just sauntered into the career and never left.

Sedah was better at first. There was different management, who actually seemed to care somewhat about the experiences of their customers. They certainly didn’t harass Crowley as much. After he spent the necessary money on buying a few good suits, Crowley quickly moved out as soon as he could start to afford paying his own rent. It was an amicable departure—it had become clear during the war years that he hadn’t been as cut out for the family business as his uncle had first thought. They indeed seemed somewhat pleased to get rid of another child.

Once Crowley was settled and acquired enough in savings to not quite cover a rainy day but something more like a damp afternoon, his plan took hold. He started to scrimp and save every pence he could in hopes of buying his dream car. A Bentley.

By the time he had enough, he was set in his ways. Unfortunately for Crowley, that was about the same time the business was sold and new managers came in. They wanted to change everything and began to implement quotas, and handbooks, and targets to reach. They wanted to control Crowley’s work like it was a science, not an artform, and they certainly didn’t appreciate his lackadaisical attitude.

He didn’t know anything but sales, now. It was alright until a few months ago, when his managers really started getting on his back. Now he was forced to consider getting back into the job market. Crowley didn’t want to end up chained to a desk somewhere. He liked the independence and freedom he got from travelling around. He had liked it ever since he moved out from his family home.

More still it meant he no longer had anyone in his personal business. He had his flat, sure, but he was on the road a lot. He made enough that he didn’t have to have a roommate and no longer had to contest with his brat cousins rummaging through his stuff. He didn’t have family friends asking about whether he had been going with any girls lately. Only had his aunt ringing a couple of times a year and assuring him that he was so _handsome,_ and was _respectable,_ and had such a steady career, it was such a shame that he was still— still —single. Especially at his age.

But the idea of being someone’s _husband_ filled Crowley with some sort of queasy fear that he didn’t like thinking about.

Crowley thought there was nothing better than speeding home, having a glass of wine while listening to his records, then sleeping most of the night. He didn’t _need_ someone else, some woman to share that with. He was perfectly fine living and being alone.

Right?

Right.

A further benefit of the job, effectively not being tied down to anyone or anywhere, that he still could keep his ear to the ground, even if he didn’t want to be in some sort of community. Whispers on the street and meetings behind closed doors, particularly closer to the city. It was easier to be a stranger, to disappear into crowds and down streets, when no one really knew who you were or where you came from. And for all Crowley’s distaste with regards to his family’s dealings, he had become somewhat of an informal messenger network going with a few lads in London. Passing on messages, where the latest spot was, who you could buy things from. It was a small thrill amongst the mundanity of his life and although Crowley ignored most of his own feelings, it felt… right, to try and help people like him. A little rebellion was good for the soul, he reckoned.

Crowley delighted in that form of temptation. Low level, minimal harm to those who didn’t deserve it, but endlessly beneficial for his own amusement. That was what was frustrating about the changes at work. His bosses didn’t _get_ it.

On an average day, the group Crowley visited most often were housewives. Some were suspicious of him, some were too busy for his antics, but a lot were bored. Lonely. Wanting a distraction from the day’s monotony—just like him. Most of the time he didn’t even need to talk about the watches. He listened to them complain about their husbands, children, mothers. How their husbands never had time for them anymore, had forgotten their anniversary, refused to buy them a new pair of shoes. After that, it was all too easy to convince them that _this_ would show him—show him that you deserved something special, to feel good, that you still had it. The purses and checkbooks opened soon after, and it meant Crowley didn’t completely want to scream when his bosses decided to do a ‘spot check’ of his records.

But these little escapes were dull in comparison to the possibility of seeing Mrs Ingels again.

* * *

The second-to-last call before Crowley was taking himself to lunch didn’t go well. A rogue hound, a handsy customer, and a screaming baby meant he left the house with a slight headache and a large annoyance. Crowley was also becoming steadily hungrier and he craved some chips, though he didn’t want to visit Mrs Ingels while covered in grease.

Crowley parked around the corner from her house and mentally prepared himself and what he was going to say. He was going to be nice, but not flirty. Complimentary, but not familiar. He would apologise for the overstep (although he refused to retract the feeling behind the statement. She _was_ an angel, in his books) and would thank her for the umbrella. If she was truly interested in the product he would sell her something, though without the usual charm that he slathered on for most of the women he visited. If not, he would resign himself to the fact that he would never see her again. He would accept it. He had to.

Crowley sighed to himself and exited the car, grabbing the umbrella before he locked it. It would be good, he reasoned as he walked up the front path, to forget about all of this. This… delusional fantasy that was getting him through his days. It wasn’t healthy.

He knocked and adjusted his hat just so. Shit, he hoped she was in.

A few moments later and the door swung wide open, just as it had done at their first meeting. Her dress, this time, was a pale cream. This time, it was clear Mrs Ingels recognised him (although Crowley couldn’t interpret the look on her face).

“Good afternoon, Mrs Ingels. I came to return your umbrella, and offer you an apology.”

She stared at him for a moment, then stepped slowly forward to grab the proffered umbrella. “Why, that’s, that’s very kind of you, Mr Crowley.”

She looked at the item in her hand, rather than him. Perhaps it was more of a shock than he had realised?

“It’s no trouble at all, especially after you saved me from getting soaked. And I’d like to apologise for my comment the other day. It clearly upset you. We’re strangers and I recognise that it wasn’t… appropriate, shall we say? I am awfully sorry and I can assure you it won’t happen again.”

It wasn’t Crowley’s usual turn of phrase, but he thought Mrs Ingels deserved the best.

She looked up at him, and blinked.

“Yes, yes, alright, no harm done. Is that all?”

“Is that _all?”_ Crowley asked incredulously then swallowed. “Yes. Only…”

“Yes?”

“Are you alright, Mrs Ingels? You don’t seem like yourself.” So much for not getting personal, then.

She bit her lip and for a moment Crowley thought he had messed up even more, as Mrs Ingels looked on the verge of tears.

“Do you know anything about plants? Oh, it’s only the head of the homeowners association—well, _informal_ head, since it’s not at all official—sent me this note,” she withdrew it from her pocket and handed it over, “about my garden. And I don’t know anything about gardening! Georgie was always the one to take care of it and now I’m being berated for—”

“Bringing down the image of the neighbourhood?” Crowley interjected, the paper mere centimetres from his eyes. He quickly lowered it, self conscious of his poor eyesight.

“Well, yes,” Mrs Ingels agreed. “I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do to get Gabriel off my back. Not that I disagree with him—I’m well aware the garden is looking a _right_ mess but you would think with my husband passing and all he would, well. Best not to say, really.”

So there wasn’t a Mr Ingels after all. “Have more tact, perhaps?”

“Quite,” she said. “Only don’t tell him I told you any of that! Oh bother, here I am waffling on about petty drama with the vicar and you just came to return my umbrella. I _am_ awfully sorry about that, Mr Crowley. I don’t get many visitors these days and I fear I am taking advantage of your probably reluctant ears.”

Crowley found it difficult to not become even more charmed by the cuteness of the lady rambling.

“I can assure you that I am more than happy to listen to you, Mrs Ingels. And it appears our meeting was fortuitous, since I have somewhat of an interest in botany myself.”

“You do?” She looked up and down at the dark, suave suit.

“I do. And I would be more than happy to have a look at your plants.”

“You would?” Mrs Ingels asked, then a smile all but bloomed on her face. “Mr Crowley, I would be eternally grateful for your assistance.”

“The pleasure is mine.” He couldn’t help but get lost in her crystal blue eyes for a moment, then remembered he was meant to be professional. And also helping with the gardening. “It was in the front, did you say? I mean, the offending plants?”

She nodded and gestured for him to follow her.

She led him the short distance to the planter boxes under one of the front windows. It was filled with dry dirt and sad, browning leaves of what looked like to be pansies. Or what were meant to be pansies, anyway. Flowering plants weren’t Crowley’s favourite—he preferred pure green leafery—but he knew enough to investigate the problem.

He wasted no time in shedding his jacket and kneeling next to the bed, no qualms about sullying his trousers. There were many benefits to only wearing dark colours, and one of them was the lack of staining. He uncuffed and rolled up his sleeves, trying not to faint under the weight of Mrs Ingels’ stare. It was fine, Crowley told himself. She was a widow who, in her own words at least, seemed lonely. He was used to this. It was nothing more than the fact she saw the forearms of a moderately attractive man and had absolutely nothing to do with Crowley himself.

Crowley attempted to focus as he began prodding about in the soil. It was bone-dry, which was probably most of the problem. There was no point in keeping the dead leaves either and he pinched a few off with his fingers. Somehow the plants themselves weren’t dead and they would likely survive with some water and soil improvement. He informed Mrs Ingels as much as he rose to stand.

“Really? That’s awfully reassuring, Mr Crowley. It seems I worked myself up into a bit of a state, I’m terribly sorry.”

Crowley threw the jacket over one of his arms. “It’s perfectly understandable after receiving such a note. I’m happy to help.”

“Well, I thank you all the same. Please, would you come in for a cup of tea? Or at least to wash your hands before you go.”

Crowley attempted to keep his smile in check. “I would love one.”

* * *

Crowley returned from the bathroom to find Mrs Ingels staring out the kitchen window, next to a filled but not yet boiling kettle.

“Mrs Ingels?”

She jumped and turned around. “Mr Crowley, you scared me! It seems I went somewhere else for a moment.”

He wandered further into the room, careful not to spook her anymore than he already had.

“Why don’t you sit down and let me take care of the tea, hmm? That note must have worried you more than you have let on.”

“Oh, I really couldn’t…” she said and twisted her hands together.

Crowley pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and raised an eyebrow at her.

She visibly deflated and sad in the proffered seat. He quickly moved away so they wouldn’t become inappropriately close and retrieved the milk from the fridge. “Where do you keep your tea?”

Slightly dazed, Mrs Ingels directed Crowley to find all the relevant accoutrements in the kitchen and to make them a pot. Soon he had joined her at the table, a small plate of homemade shortbread between them.

The pair quietly doctored their cups to their own tastes before Mrs Ingels spoke again.

“I am sorry if I appear ungrateful, Mr Crowley, but I can’t seem to work out why you are doing this. Why are you helping me? I all but threw you out after our first meeting and not only did you return and apologise, but you went out of your way to assist me. Why?” She asked, visibly confused.

Crowley’s brain momentarily froze as he tried to come up with an answer that sounded at least half truthful but didn’t contain the words “pretty” “angel” or “beautiful”.

He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin before he spoke.

“Well, like I said it appears fortunate that I was here when you needed assistance. I’m somewhat of a botanist myself and was able to help you. Besides, it wouldn’t do to leave a lady such as yourself in distress.”

“Do you often go about rescuing ladies, then?”

Crowley choked on his tea. “Wha— no— I mean—”

“Calm yourself, Mr Crowley. I was only teasing,” she added, mirth clear in her voice.

“Oh,” he replied weakly. “Sorry.”

“No harm done at all. Do you like the shortbread? Sweets are one of the few things I can make reliably. Georgie was always better at the savour—” Mrs Ingels cut herself off, eyes wide at something, glancing down at the tea then back up at Crowley’s face.

He frowned in an attempt to process what she was shocked by. Her husband was always a better cook? And Crowley made her tea. That was… interesting, but clearly something she didn’t wish to speak about.

“You must miss him a lot,” he said instead, in hopes that the conversation could move to safer territories.

Mrs Ingels stared down into her cup. “Incredibly. He was my best friend. He saved my life, really,” she looked up with a bittersweet expression.

Crowley had no hope, then. She clearly still loved her husband a great deal. Why did he ever think he had a chance?

“He sounds wonderful.”

Mrs Ingels nodded, eyes now filled with tears. Crowley rushed to offer her his handkerchief.

She accepted it slowly, the brush of their fingers warm together, then dabbed carefully at her cheeks. “Look at me being silly,” she added, embarrassed. “Here you are trying to sell me a watch and I’m crying!”

Shit, Crowley thought. He forgot himself completely, content to pretend that this woman wanted to share a cup of tea and his company. He never lost his cool like that. Never forgot that the deal was what he was after. Still, as much as he knew their relationship would never be more than a professional one, he tried to delay the inevitable as long as possible.

“That’ll keep, for now. I’d rather talk about you.”

* * *

The conversation was long enough to finish another cup of tea but no more. Crowley wanted to linger but knew he was walking a dangerous line, and politely excused himself after he had finished.

Mrs Ingels pressed a bag of shortbread into his hands before he left. Crowley didn’t particularly like sweets to begin with, but he wasn’t going to refuse the gift.

At the door he paused.

“Pansies! I mean, your garden. Did you need me to write down any of my advice?”

“Now you’re going to believe my incredibly silly. Mr Crowley, I’m afraid I don’t remember a word of it. You probably think my stupid, asking for it and then forgetting it all—”

“It’s fine, a— ah, Mrs Ingels. Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Well, yes, it’s only…”

“Yes?”

“I meant what I said. I mean, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. And I do not know when Gabriel might leave another note, or where to get soil, or what to do if something worse happens, let alone if I’ll ever see you again. I assume you’ll be… moving on? From Tadfield, I mean.”

“Not for another month, at least.”

The tense look on Mrs Ingels’ face eased somewhat.

“Wonderful! I mean, that you get to explore our lovely little town. It truly is rather handsome. I would forget my head if it weren’t attached, I swear I was going to ask you a question. Would it be at all possible to get your telephone number? Then if I had anymore trouble I would be able to ring you.”

This was about gardening tips, Crowley, nothing more. At least, he tried to quash the hope that was building inside of him at Mrs Ingels’ request. She wanted his _telephone number!_ Then he remembered something important.

“Mrs Ingels, I would be happy to. Unfortunately, with my work I’m not at home as much as I would like, and I can’t guarantee when I’ll be sent on to another area. Would it be alright if I had yours, instead? I assure you I wouldn’t misuse it. Only for a check in. About the plants.”

She nodded. “I believe that would be perfect.”

He jotted it down in the back of his pocket journal, carefully checking to ensure that the number was correct.

“We’ll talk soon, Mrs Ingels.” Crowley offered her his hand.

“Indeed. Mind how you go.”

The handshake lingered, then Crowley pulled away.

He walked down the path and street, turning back to see that Mrs Ingels still watched him. Crowley waved as he turned the corner, practically on cloud nine.


	3. A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale contemplates her crush, and an arrangement is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw grief, vague allusions to transphobia

Aziraphale could not get Mr Crowley out of her mind, and it was becoming a real problem.

She attempted to distract herself with the usual things—reading, sewing, crosswords, listening to the radio, baking, cleaning. She tried going for short walks around the neighbourhood to clear her head. She tried practicing her embroidery, though she still loathed it, and dedicated herself to making the house spick and span from top to bottom in a way she only attempted twice a year. Aziraphale even tried making more complicated meals than her usual fair, though the results left much to be desired.

But at every spare moment, at every corner, thoughts of the salesman would fill her mind.

Aziraphale only had herself to blame, really. He had returned to give her back the umbrella and apologise—which was quite unexpected but nonetheless delightful. She should have let him go. Walk away. Never to be seen again, even though that would have been awfully tragic.

But the note from Gabriel got her _so_ worked up. She didn’t know what it was about that man that made her worry so. And Mr Crowley just happened to be there at the right time and he had somewhat of an interest in botany and the next thing Aziraphale knew was that his sleeves were rolled up and he was poking about in her pansies.

She knew he was handsome before. In that well-cut dark suit that was wrapped so nicely around his slim figure. It was another matter entirely to see his forearms.

And then—and then!—she invited him in, like an idiot. At every turn Aziraphale had decided to prolong their interaction and torture herself even further. Georgie would laugh at her, she just knew it.

Even worse than that, her head was so gone with the morning’s excitement that _Mr Crowley_ was the one to make them tea. He was supposed to be her guest! And then she almost let slip that Georgie did most of the cooking when he was alive. Aziraphale really needed to get a hold of herself.

Aziraphale threw down the sock she was darning. Now Mr Crowley had her telephone number and she had a crush the size of London.

The real problem was that none of Mr Crowley’s actions particularly dissuaded her feelings. He could have politely excused himself from coming in; he could have said he knew nothing about plants at all and wished her a good day. But the help and the tea and the company and the telephone number just fueled her foolish hope. That he could return her affections.

Aziraphale sighed and got up. She needed to keep herself busier than sitting and darning. She would sort out some of Georgie’s clothes instead.

The grieving period had hit her long and in waves. Aziraphale didn’t particularly have anyone to keep her accountable, so removing Georgie’s remaining possessions had been a gradual and slow process, and she was still doing it almost a year later.

Some had easily been donated to and distributed by the church. Cheaper shirts and things that hadn’t been either of their favourites, that had been purchased from department stores. The rest were more difficult to deal with.

Thinking of Georgie didn’t make Aziraphale’s current predicament any better.

She put down the suit jacket she had been holding to her nose and flung herself backwards onto the bed. She was so conflicted.

Aziraphale had grown up not imagining that a future for someone like her was possible. And then she met Georgie. They had become friends after he spotted her in the local library reading some Wilde and after her initial suspicions ( ~~rudeness~~ ) about his intentions, they had become all but inseparable.

But Aziraphale still had her secrets. Fortunately for her, Georgie had his own.

A plan was devised and as soon as it was possible, they were married. There would never be that heart-stopping, butterfly-inducing romance between them, but they loved each other completely, and planned to spend the rest of their lives together. But it seemed someone had other plans.

Now that potential, that spark of possibility had literally landed on her doorstep. She knew how low the likelihood of Mr Crowley accepting her was. She knew how badly things could turn out if she led him on, delaying the inevitable to extend this temporary happiness just a little further. But she _felt_ something again. Something she had never really allowed herself to feel.

Aziraphale’s melancholic contemplation was interrupted by the telephone ringing. The phone! She sat up and rushed down the hallway. What if it was Mr Crowley? What was she to say? She hadn’t even _thought_ about the garden since he left a few days ago—she had been so distracted by everything.

Aziraphale took a deep breath to calm herself and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hello, dearie. It’s Kathy, from down the road. How are you doing, pet?”

Aziraphale sunk into the chair with disappointment. It wasn’t him.

“I’m alright, Kathy, thank you for asking. I’ve been a bit restless these past few days so I have been getting a jump on my spring cleaning, as it were. How are you? How’s the family?”

“Oh, I’m fine, just fine. My Stephen said he saw a strange man digging around in your garden and I said, a strange man with Mrs Ingels? I can hardly believe it! You’re pulling my leg, I said, and he said no, he saw his flash car parked around the corner from you and there he was, kneeling in the grass. So I thought I would phone to find out what the story was. You know me, can hardly resist a bit of gossip, especially when it concerns you, Aziraphale. I hope you don’t mind me saying but it’s not as if you’re a social butterfly, constantly caught up in scandals like _some_ people whose name’s rhyme with Fetty Filliams, so I was right shocked when Stephen gave me the news. Who was it?”

Aziraphale had been so caught up with Mr Crowley she hadn’t even noticed that someone had seen them. She probably wouldn’t have noticed a piano dropped on her head, come to think of it. Damn the neighbourhood busybodies. She would never live this down.

Aziraphale chuckled more confidently than she felt. “Yes, Stephen did see a man in my garden. His name is Mr Crowley. He’s a watch salesman, who happened to arrive when I was trying to decide what to do with the garden. It’s funny, it turns out he has an interest in botany and offered to take a look. How could I refuse, when I have such a black thumb? He gave me some advice and that was all it was, really. I can’t believe Stephen has you speculating about my nonexistent social life like that. How funny.”

Kathy made a thoughtful noise at the other end of the line. “A salesman, you say? You better be careful, Aziraphale, you know what those sorts are like. Conmen and scoundrels, the lot of them. Especially with you living all alone now. Never know with these strangers.”

Aziraphale bristled at the suggestion. “I found him perfectly polite, Kathy, but I will take your advice under consideration. Was there anything else I could help you with?”

“No, no, just your mystery man got the better of my curiosity. Speaking of salesman, did I ever tell you about the time the butcher started flirting with me? It was summer, I remember because I was wearing my new off the shoulder dress—you know the one, with the fine check? And…”

Aziraphale was forced to listen to Kathy’s story, with all the irrelevant details it contained, for some minutes. These phone calls always ended up like this.

She knew she should have kinder thoughts about everyone who tried to look after her after Georgie’s passing, but she found most of them dull or annoying. They were being neighbourly, sure, but many of them were nosy busybodies like Kathy and always tried to get in her business. It was the same before Georgie died, too. It was clear no one thought a man as handsome as _him_ should have been involved with someone as plain as _her._ None of them could know the truth, of course, but they still prevailed in their attempts at amateur sleuthing. No one seemed to share her taste in music or reading—she knew she was a little old fashioned, but they made her feel like a right bore. Aziraphale had to be sympathetic when her neighbours complained about their husbands, instead of trying to start a rebellious streak and ask why things were the way they were. She had been lucky, and knew she should just be grateful that she could go about her life with the independence that widowhood somewhat granted. But she was constantly reminded how different she and her thoughts were.

“...And I talked to Mary, she said she’s going to drop off another casserole here sometime this week. You liked the other one, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale knew she wasn’t a good cook, but that could hardly be classified as food. “Mhmm. Yes, it was lovely. Very generous of her.”

“Wonderful! We look after our own in Tadfield, of course. And we’ve got to keep you fed!”

“I appreciate it, Kathy, I really do. But I assure you I’m fine, I _can_ cook, even if it’s a simple meat and three veg, and it’s been almost a year.”

“It’s alright, Aziraphale, you don’t have to pretend with me. Ooh, I better go, the dog is begging for a walk. Ta ta, now.”

“Goodbye.”

Aziraphale clicked the phone into place and groaned. She knew she was lonely but it was unfortunate to have the reminder why. She didn’t particularly get along with or understand any of her neighbours. Or perhaps it was that nobody seemed to really understand _her_.

She did have a penpal in the city—a girl like her she had discovered through an underground magazine. She helped, both with the more practical aspects of her life and with comforting Aziraphale. But it wasn’t really enough to have a letter once a week. Especially now that Georgie was gone.

Aziraphale was fortunate, in some respects, that she was able to keep the house and land. The lawyer was good, but Aziraphale doubted he would be able to negotiate enough for her to sell and move closer to the city. It seemed like a silly pipedream, most days.

So Aziraphale was stuck in Tadfield. No husband, no occupation, no hope of more independence than she already had, and certainly no possibility of romantic prospects. She was still waiting for some of the inheritance to come through, as Georgie’s sister was all the way across the world in New Zealand, and correspondence took a long time. Frederick said it would be resolved very, very soon.

Before meeting Mr Crowley, the only real thing that Aziraphale had to look forward to was the hope of future surgery. She knew who she was regardless, but she wanted it anyway. Sometimes when she saw herself in the mirror it made her feel in this… incomplete state. She knew she would always be different from other women—she always had been, really. But this would bring Aziraphale closer to who she was meant to be all along.

Aziraphale was sad Georgie wasn’t here to see it. She was sad regardless, but this new stage of her life. Despite the wonderful reprieve of their marriage, she still had the niggling feeling that the universe just wasn’t on her side.

And here she was, getting melancholy again. There was only one thing for it, a proper distraction to forget her problems and the whole… situation with Mr Crowley.

Aziraphale curled up in her chair with her latest loan from the library. She loved all sorts of books—poetry and mysteries and comedies. At one stage she had wanted to _be_ a librarian, though her parents wanted her to pursue something more… traditionally academic. Books had always been her comfort, her escape when everything became too much. Of course, things didn’t exactly turn out as planned, and she was unemployed and widowed, not in some hallowed hall with elbow patches. Never mind all that now.

Aziraphale tucked her legs under her and cracked open the book. She sighed, and was soon lost in another world.

Aziraphale spent the good part of an hour deep in the story. It was a mythical adventure; full of magic and princesses and knights. Aziraphale knew some would think it silly, a grown woman like her invested in a fairytale. But it made her happy. After some time she felt the crick in her neck that had developed and came back to the present.

It was the perfect place to pause—the dashing knight had just scaled the tower and caught sight of the princess. Aziraphale wiggled as she considered what was about to happen next.

Ooh, her neck truly _was_ smarting. She stood up and stretched, groaning in relief. Aziraphale hummed to herself as she padded to the kitchen. She was thirsty, too.

As she waited for the kettle to boil she couldn’t help but think of the knight in the story. He seemed familiar, in a way, which Aziraphale chased away as a ridiculous thought. He was a character on a page, not a real person. But as the kettle began to whistle she realised who he reminded her of. Tall and slim; well-dressed in his armour, kind and noble.

Mr Crowley.

Now that really _was_ ridiculous. Aziraphale wasn’t some fair maiden in a tall tower! She was a dowdy, unremarkable woman stuck in a dull if pretty suburb. She certainly didn’t need rescuing from anything. The novel was an escape, but it wouldn’t do to leave the real world entirely.

She shook her head as she made her tea. But it did seem that their meeting was somehow fated. The umbrella, then the plants… An umbrella looked quite like a lance when you thought about it. And didn’t Kathy say something about his flash car?

It wasn’t any use to think about. Aziraphale was meant to be convincing herself out of these foolish hopes, not into them. She really had her head in the clouds. She couldn’t afford to be impractical, particularly now.

Perhaps she would take a leaf out of Georgie’s book. Aziraphale settled at the table with her tea, notepad and paper. She would list what she _actually_ knew about Crowley, and these silly imaginings would be done and dusted.

Well, he was a salesman, so clearly he thought himself something of a smooth operator. Charming, perhaps. But not in a nice way! In a way that was to get money out of people.

Oh, what was the word? _Wily._ Ah, yes, that was it. He was quite wily, using charm and flattery to make his sales.

He was handsome, Aziraphale reasoned that that was an objective fact, and it joined the list. Mr Crowley did in fact help her with the plants, and made her tea when she was all muddled up, so generous was apt, she supposed.

Yes, generous. He returned her umbrella, did he not? So thoughtful was true as well. The same applied for when he left after the _nickname incident,_ as she had taken to referring it. Kind, really, to go out of his way to help her like he had.

Confident, definitely, to go about knocking on strangers doors all day. Especially dressing as he did, But he didn’t particularly seem arrogant in the way other salesman had been.

Aziraphale reviewed what she had so far with horror. Almost everything she had written down were positive traits of Mr Crowley. There must be _something,_ some flaw that he had _—_ after all, nobody was perfect.

She tapped the end of the pen thoughtfully against her cheek. Hmm.

Well, he did seem to have a knack for getting stories and information out of her. In fact, she hardly knew anything about him at all! Although he hadn’t outright needled her for the information—and Aziraphale had been called a chatterbox in her time—it was still true enough. Satisfied, she wrote down nosy at the end of the list.

Still, it wasn’t a diatribe of flaws that she had been hoping to acquire. Nothing was unforgivable there and the battle between her head and her heart only waged on. Aziraphale groaned and got up to turn on the radio. Perhaps the music would drown out her thoughts.

She tuned into the station just as the next song was being dedicated “from Jo, to my sweetheart Caroline” and the opening bars of a familiar tune flooded the kitchen.

Aziraphale hummed and swayed to herself for a moment as the song began, lost temporarily in the music.

Then the lyrics hit her like a lorry.

It was her, and Crowley. Here she was trying to keep her feet planted firmly on the ground and now the universe was providing her with what spiritual folks would call _a sign._ She didn’t need any signs, thank you for very much! Aziraphale knew the paths ahead of her—she was simply reluctant to choose any of them.

Trying to be practical again, she attempted to follow the possibilities all the way to their conclusions. If she did tell Crowley, if he knew her, truly, what would he see?

Aziraphale was about to begin sketching out ideas when there was a knock at the door.

She froze.

It came again, and she hurried to turn the radio down and answer it.

Mr Crowley had the worst—or perhaps, the best—timing, and Aziraphale resolved to add it to her list.

He all but beamed when she answered it and Aziraphale couldn’t help but offer her own small smile in return.

“Hello, Mr Crowley. Whatever are you doing here?” She was surprised, but not displeased to be seeing him again.

“Well, Mrs Ingels, it seems none of our meetings have gone as planned and seeing as I was in the area, as it were, I thought I better give you a chance to properly examine our fine products.”

Aziraphale gave a shy smile. “It does seem that we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, Mr Crowley, I do agree with you. Won’t you please come in?”

Aziraphale beckoned him in and he returned his hat and coat to the rests by the door as he had before. It was quite similar to their first meeting, but Aziraphale sincerely hoped she wouldn’t run him out of her home again.

She settled into her chair and Mr Crowley joined her, next to her on the sofa. His leather case was placed once more on the table and he pulled out the various bits and pieces that he had carried.

“Now, I’m not sure how much you remember due to the… various excitement we've had, so would it be alright if I run through it again?”

Aziraphale nodded. Although back in the sales context, this gentle version of Mr Crowley reminded her of how he had treated her after the news of her front garden. “I believe that would be perfect.”

Again, that brilliant smile. “Wonderful. Now, here at Sedah we have quality timepieces in various styles, suitable for every budget. I’m sure there’s something in the catalogue that will suit you however, please know Mrs Ingels that you have absolutely no obligation to buy, alright? Not today or ever.”

That… wasn’t what she expected. She thought he would be trying to do anything to get her to hand over a cheque, but perhaps this was an attempt to garner a false sense of security? Oh, she couldn’t think about it too much or she would just get worked up again.

“Alright. Now, I do happen to know you’re currently relieved of a wristwatch, so perhaps we should start with the ladies section?” He offered with a wink.

He remembered. Aziraphale of course didn’t know how popular the company was or how wide Mr Crowley’s sales area was, but he remembered her story from their very first meeting. It was flattering, even if she was trying to resist it.

He didn’t wait for an answer, instead opening the catalogue to the appropriate section and shifting the samples over so she could examine them more easily.

Aziraphale really did her best to focus. She didn’t particularly know anything about watches—she had purchased a series of cheaper ones as they seemed to always break and get lost. And obviously she had given away her latest one, which had been a gift from Georgie. Perhaps it was time to invest?

They _looked_ pretty enough, at least, though the price tag was a little off putting. They must be high quality, given it and Mr Crowley’s general air.

She traced her finger along the sample of a square watch face. It was remarkable how they had arranged the samples. Small sections of links and bands sat in a row, neatly labelled underneath. Squares of metal were also embedded in the card, as were the different faces and hands available. Aziraphale felt like a bit of a fuddy-duddy, sometimes. She had hardly got a grip on records by the time the radio started to boom, and she knew she was quite behind when it came to technology. Would she really suit something so glamorous and shinily new?

And there she was getting down on herself again. That was one thing she definitely had a knack for. Aziraphale privately kicked herself and remembered the list, and her slapdash plan to find out more about the handsome stranger.

“So, Mr Crowley, have you been in watch sales long?”

She briefly looked up to meet his gaze and he blinked at her owlishly. Aziraphale quickly lowered her eyes again as she picked up the catalogue to stare blankly at the offerings.

“Mmmm, yeah, I mean,” he cleared his throat. “Must be nearly ten years now, or thereabouts.”

Aziraphale was awful at determining ages—what if he was a lot older than her? It’s not that she didn’t believe that that could work, it’s only older folks, in her experience, did seem to be more conservative. She would have to play it cool. “Why, that’s quite a long time. You must have gotten into it fairly young, then?”

“Around eighteen, I did. About the same time I left home.”

Then they were almost the same age! Excellent sleuthing, Aziraphale. “And do you find it pleasant work? The travelling must be nice, at least.”

He shifted and fiddled with his own watch. “Pleasant enough. I didn’t particularly have a lot of options, and, to be frank with you, it was one of the first realistic ones that came along. It was nicer in the beginning, the company was sold a few years back and, well. Can I trust you, Mrs Ingels?” He asked, amber eyes staring back at hers.

“Of course,” she answered before she really processed the question. The problem was she _did_ trust him, no matter how foolish it was.

He shifted slightly closer to the end of the sofa, and to where she was sitting. “Well, Sedah has sort of… sunk downward in my estimations. At first I thought the managers would be the same as old, then I thought they might make some improvements, as small as they would have been. But they don’t appreciate the, the art of sales!”

“The art of sales?” Aziraphale raised her eyebrows at the passion building in the man in front of her.

“Yes! Not just any Tom, Dick or Harry can approach a stranger and walk away with a deal. It requires patience and, and, persistence! Dedication! They think we can just have a rote script and say the same thing in the same time and expect the same results!”

Mr Crowley was gesticulating wildly, now, to emphasise his points. His long limbs were thrown about her sofa with abandon. It was almost cute, and Aziraphale had to bite her lip to stop herself from smiling. He clearly cared a great deal about the topic.

“That sounds awful, my dear.”

“Hh— yeah, yeah, um, yes. It’s… it hasn’t been fun.” His limbs fell softly to his sides and his face was now turning a soft pink.

“Are you alright? Would you like some water?”

“Um, please. It seems I… worked myself up too much,” he finished weakly.

Aziraphale bustled off to the kitchen to fetch the beverage, blissfully unaware of the reason as to why Mr Crowley now resembled a tomato.

Soon enough she was back and offered him a glass. Their fingers brushed at the hand over and she inhaled sharply at the contact.

Mr Crowley quickly started downing the drink and in the rush ended up choking.

The room was now filled with the sound of his hacking cough as he placed the glass hastily on the coffee table. Aziraphale, still standing, rushed around it to join him on the sofa and tap at his back.

“Mr Crowley! Are you alright? No, don’t try to answer, just breathe through it, there’s a dear.” The cough that had been beginning to ease picked up again. “Do you have asthma?” She asked, terribly concerned at the sight before her. He shook his head and Aziraphale thanked whoever looked after that sort of thing for the small miracle.

Mr Crowley was bent over as he stopped choking, and Aziraphale rubbed his back in slow circles almost instinctively.

At first he took in large, gulping breaths but they soon eased into a more regular pattern.

She continued rubbing his back, anyway.

“Are you _sure_ you’re alright, Mr Crowley? Oh, that coughing was terrible. Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to rush like that?”

Mr Crowley’s flinch was subtle, but present all the same, felt more firmly by the touch Aziraphale was continuing.

She quickly withdrew her hand and placed it in her lap.

“If she did, I don’t remember it. She died when I was young.”

Aziraphale had truly put her foot in it this time and she looked away. “Mr Crowley, I’m so terribly sorry. You must think me awfully rude.”

A light, warm touch on her hand made her look back. As soon as he had touched her he withdrew. “You didn’t know,” he added softly.

Only then did Aziraphale notice how close they were sitting, but it wouldn’t do to just suddenly pull away. However to create the appropriate distance between them? “Still. First choking, now me making you uncomfortable. We’re not very good at this, are we?”

“This?” Mr Crowley asked with a frown.

“Buying watches on my part. Selling on yours.”

Something flickered across his face but it quickly disappeared as his features smoothed out. “Of course. No, no we aren’t,” Mr Crowley added in something of a dark tone.

That wouldn’t do at all, she was attempting to get to _know_ the man!

“Perhaps…” Aziraphale began softly. “Perhaps we’ll get better with practice?”

“Mrs Ingels, I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

Come on, Aziraphale, she said to herself. Be brave, take this chance. “ _Well_ ,” she tried again. “I cannot say that my mind is made up about any of these fine watches. Nor am I comfortable with, hmm, handing over money to a complete stranger. You do know what they say about travelling salesman, Mr Crowley, I’m sure?”

“Wha—, Mrs Ingels, that is not at _all—_ ”

“Hush, dear.” Mr Crowley’s mouth clicked shut. “You see, I really do like to get to _know_ the people I’m buying from. Particularly as you’ve been with Sedah for almost a decade, you must possess the expertise to assist me in this careful purchase. I do think I’ll need to sleep on it, at the very least.”

Mr Crowley had sat back up, clearly intrigued as to what Aziraphale was saying. “Mrs Ingels. I’m not exactly certain as to what you are proposing.”

“Hmm,” she mused. “An… arrangement, of sorts. You see, as I do want to ensure that I am not handing my money over to a charlatan and I want to select the watch that suits me best. It will take some time and some learning about each other, for me to come to that decision.” Oh, she was enjoying this and she wiggled slightly in her seat. Then remembered something important. “But of course, if you cannot _wait_ that long I’m sure—”

“No!” Mr Crowley exclaimed. “No, no,” he added less excitedly. “The, ah, _arrangement,_ as it were, would, um, definitely suit me. Like I said, the art of sales, right?”

Aziraphale beamed. “Indeed! Oh, how splendid, Mr Crowley, now that the pressure is off and that we’ve come to such an understanding.” She clapped her hands together with joy.

Mr Crowley was still sitting sideways to her, so she watched as the pleasure radiated from his profile.

“I suppose I should take my leave? Let you… contemplate your options?” He murmured as he shuffled to the edge of the sofa.

Aziraphale deflated slightly. “I mean, if you have to I shan’t keep you. But I have nothing on, if you’d like to stay a little longer.”

Mr Crowley eased back onto the sofa. “I can stay.”

“Wonderful.”

Their eyes met and Crowley looked away, cheeks still pink. It wasn’t particularly warm in her house, Aziraphale wondered about the cause.

“Well, um. What do you want to know? I’ll tell you anything, anything you like.”

* * *

Aziraphale learnt a great deal of fascinating things about Mr Crowley. For instance, the highest number of possessions in his flat were plants, he could list them all by name—latin and given both. Aziraphale had cooed at the thought, though he grumbled something about them not deserving praise. She insisted that a man like him would undoubtedly have gorgeous plants, and his face only turned redder. An interesting development.

Mr Crowley had also restored his beautiful Bentley by hand. He promised he would park closer next time so that she could have a look. He had grown up with his cousins in a village not too dissimilar to Tadfield, and although they had never been outrightly hostile to him, he had always felt… different.

Unfortunately their conversation was cut short as Mr Crowley took note of the time and realised that he hadn’t had lunch. Aziraphale offered to make him something but he clearly felt that he had taken up too much of her time, and bid her a good day.

Not before assuring her that he would ring later in the week. To check on the plants, you see.

Aziraphale tried not to get too excited as she considered the prospect. Perhaps it wouldn’t become anything more than a friendship, but what a friendship it would be!

Then she realised she had a _lot_ of time to fill before she spoke to Mr Crowley next. Fiddlesticks.


	4. C

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley finally rings Mrs Ingels, and he comes to an important realisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an earlier update this week because I feel like we all need it. this chapter is also a bit longer than usual mostly because cutting it down would have been way too much of a headache with what I have planned. also, the last third contains some my favourite writing I've ever done, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> cw brief internalised homophobia/queerphobia, allusions to masturbation and adultery, shitty bosses
> 
> the greyromantic crowley tag is particularly relevant in this one ;) ;)

Mrs Ingels had a habit of surprising Crowley.

From the very first meeting when she admitted to giving her watch away to someone who needed it more, to her apparent obliviousness as to her affect on him, he could never predict what would happen next. Now they had this arrangement business and Crowley was practically handed every excuse to talk to her on a silver platter!

Speaking of, Crowley was currently speeding down the road back to his flat for the weekend. It was a Friday, and what a glorious day it was. It was the day he would be ringing Mrs Ingels after his _very_ productive visit earlier in the week.

It had been a series of excruciatingly long days since, in the lead up to their promised phone call. In hindsight, Crowley knew it was probably better to play it cool and have a break before speaking again, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t absolute torture. Restraining himself like this, holding himself back from all that he wanted to say… It wasn’t something he was particularly comfortable with. Familiar, most definitely. From the time Crowley realised he was asking too many questions in his youth, to all of his queer feelings, to his new bosses who didn’t want him to be anything but a sheep. Crowley was intimately familiar with not saying everything he wished to say.

The problem was it was _so hard_ with Mrs Ingels. Crowley wasn’t sure if it was her angelic appearance or her general air but she made Crowley want to spill out every last one of his secrets. All the things he had never shared with anyone else.

But that was dangerous. Hence the waiting. Besides, Crowley knew what a small town like Tadfield was like. Although Mrs Ingels hadn’t indicated that she cared what her neighbours thought, one of them should at least attempt to maintain her reputation. Crowley knew what other people thought of him, with his suits and his car. It wouldn’t do for him to turn up too regularly lest someone get the wrong idea. It really didn’t make it any easier, though.

After he parked, Crowley bounded up the stairs to his flat. He dumped his things by the door, not particularly caring where his hat ended up, and toed off his shoes. He marched straight to the bedroom, threw himself onto the bed and began to scream into his pillow.

The drive had done nothing to relieve him of his nervous energy and he knew he needed to get it out somehow before the telephone call. Somehow this was the most sensible option. He could have had a drink but Crowley thought it better to keep his wits about him. A shower, too, after a long day would probably help, but lately those had been leading to far more inappropriate territories. Crowley couldn’t risk getting… keyed up, as it were.

As he clutched the pillow to his chest he wondered if _this_ is how all his peers had been feeling during their adolescence. Is this why they had all suddenly seemed to lose their faculties? Because of all these bubbling, boiling _wants_ inside them? It was strange to think about, that in some ways he felt twelve years behind everyone else.

Crowley sat up more properly and ran a hand through his hair. This thought path certainly wouldn’t do anything to ready him for the telephone call. Crowley got up and went to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. Hopefully that would do something to calm the butterflies in his stomach. He knew putting it off would only make things worse.

He finished the glass and returned to the telephone. He had memorised Mrs Ingels’ number since he first received it but he retrieved it just in case and dialled. Crowley did his best not to hold his breath, knowing it would only stress him out further, as he waited for her to pick up the phone.

“Hello, this is Aziraphale Ingels speaking.”

Crowley didn’t think he could adore her voice any more. “Hello, um, Mrs Ingels. It’s Crowley, I mean, Mr Crowley. From the watch company?” Crowley closed his eyes in horror at his stumbling.

“Of course, Mr Crowley. I remember you very well, you know, seeing as we saw each other only a few days ago.” She sounded amused rather than annoyed, thank goodness.

“Right, well, I don’t know how many callers you’re getting, do I? Could be running a switchboard for all I know.”

She sighed softly at the end of the line. “I can assure you yours is the only call I’ve been looking forward to all week.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Crowley let that sink in for the moment. _She_ had been looking forward to this? Maybe there was hope after all.

“How have you been, Mrs Ingels?”

“I’ve been alright, my dear. Nothing of note has happened, in particular. I finished a novel.”

“Reading or writing?”

Mrs Ingels chuckled and Crowley’s heart beat wildly. “Reading, of course. I’m not much of a writer, I promise you that is best left to those with actual talents.”

Crowley only just stopped himself from singing her praises. He knew _that_ would be a step too far.

“What was the book about?”

“Oh, you’ll think me incredibly silly.”

“Never,” Crowley said earnestly. “I could never think that.”

A pause at the other end, and Crowley worried if he had crossed a line.

“That’s very kind of you, Mr Crowley. It was a fairytale, if I were to be honest. Knight in shining armour, fair maiden, I’m sure you’re familiar.”

“Of course. Loved a bit of pretend sword fighting in my day. Though I can’t abide horses.”

“Really?”

“Yes. They’re quite—” hard on the buttocks, is what Crowley almost said, “—unnerving. I think it’s the teeth.”

Mrs Ingels laughed and Crowley bit down on his knuckles.

“I can’t say I’ve much experience with them, but I’ll take your word for it. And how have you been, Mr Crowley?”

How was _he,_ not how had sales been. Him. Crowley.

“I’ve been alright. Much the same as you, really. Nothing much outside of work. Though one call did result in quite the funny story, if you’re wanting to hear it?”

“I’d be delighted.”

“Well, I approached this house—I can’t disclose where, of course—and I thought it would be a regular interaction. Routine, you know. Not too much variation in the day to day. Well, this woman answered the door, see, and she was only in her dressing gown and slip.”

“My heavens!”

“Exactly. You would think she just wouldn’t answer the door and I would be on my merry way but no, she answered it, bold as brass. I apologised for the interruption, explained I was selling watches and that I could leave my business card if that would be something of interest.”

“You didn’t immediately depart?”

“I was tempted—I mean, I think I was frozen in shock, mostly. Somehow it seemed ruder to run away than to explain my presence. Anyway, she said that wouldn’t be necessary and that she had plenty of time now and invited me in! From her, shall we say, disposition I didn’t think it would go well and I assured her it was fine and took my leave. But the thing is, it was only three o’clock in the afternoon!”

There was silence at the end of the line, rather than the laughter Crowley expected.

“Does this happen to you often, Mr Crowley? Women… throwing themselves at you?” Mrs Ingels asked in a cool tone.

“No! No, god no. A— ah, Mrs Ingels, I can assure you it doesn’t. I know the rumours that you’re hinting at and I promise it really is quite rare.”

“But it does happen?”

Shit shit shit. “Well, unfortunately, yes. I mean you have to understand, a lot of our customers are housewives like yourself and I think some of them get quite… lonely. I mean, I try not to be too familiar with my customers.” _Then what was this?_ He thought to himself wildly. “...but many tell me their troubles, with husbands and things. I think it’s more the idea of me than who I am, personally.”

“I see.”

Crowley squeezed his eyes tight as he stopped himself from groaning. “I fear I’ve offended you again, Mrs Ingels.”

“No, my dear, it’s my fault,” she sighed. “The idea of you being… approached in such a way while on business leaves me with quite a queasy feeling. It doesn’t seem… right.”

“Like I said, I hardly blame most of them. I just try to keep my wits about me and extract myself as quickly as I can.”

“Oh?”

“Mm.”

A pause. Something in Crowley’s mind clicked over.

“Mrs Ingels, please correct me if I’m wrong but that isn’t to say you think I… dally with these women? I assure you that isn’t the case.”

“Oh!” Mrs Ingels laughed nervously. “I see. I’m terribly sorry, that’s awful of me to presume. It’s only I know that you’re, well, quite an eligible bachelor, it seems, and I would hardly blame you.”

She really couldn’t see how gone he was on her? “I know how the ah, suit and car can come across, but I really am looking for something more… committed. Let’s discuss something safer, shall we? How are the plants?”

The discuss of the plants soon turned into one about the weather, and Mrs Ingels’ nosy neighbours, and a Gabriel that sounded like a right bastard. Crowley tried to relay the more appropriate funny stories from his job—most of them involving escaped dogs and spilled cups of tea. Somehow more than an hour had passed and he knew that if he didn’t stop them there, he could speak to her all night.

“I should probably let you go, Mrs Ingels. I’ve taken up enough of your time for one evening.”

“Oh. Of course, my dear. Oh goodness, look at the time! Where did it go?”

“They say it flies when you’re having fun.” Crowley closed his eyes and tried to imagine them in the same room. Tried to hold onto the warmth that the call had filled him with.

“Indeed. Well, it was most pleasant catching up with you, Mr Crowley. Thank you very much for your _thyme_ and your _sage_ horticultural advice. Perhaps in future I’ll be able to _dill_ with the problems myself.”

Crowley groaned over the flash of fear that came with the idea of a future without her. “Were those _puns,_ angel?”

Mrs Ingels laughed softly. “Perhaps. Goodnight, my dear.”

“Goodnight, Mrs Ingels.”

Crowley put the receiver down and slumped back on the chair. Sweet, sweet torture.

* * *

Crowley felt like a stranger to himself, some days.

Waking up in the morning was now so much easier. He still needed his vital cup of coffee, but it wasn’t so much of a struggle to roll out of bed with Mrs Ingels the first thing on his mind. Although the thoughts were his own—private, not spoken to anyone—he still felt… embarrassed. Shame. Guilt. With every breath and every beat of his heart, Crowley thought of the angel.

He knew it wasn’t right. They were friends, just friends, and Crowley couldn’t offer much but a flash car and plant knowledge. But still, he didn’t think anyone was that nice that they would entertain him for this long without somehow, on some level, wanting it too. So friends. That was it.

But then he had all these other thoughts as well. Ones Crowley had never felt for anyone before. He wanted to hold her hand, hold her close, maybe even kiss her—though that thought thrilled and terrified him in equal measure. The few instances they had touched replayed on a loop over and over in his mind. The memory of the smallest brush of their hands was enough to brighten his mood.

It distracted him at work, too. Crowley would realise he had driven down the wrong street and had just kept going, the car pointed on a track back to her house when he was meant to be pitching on the other side of town. He began to freak out at the sight of blonde women, which was approximately half of his clientele, particularly if he saw them from the back or at a distance. It’s like everything in the world was teasing him with the very idea of Mrs Ingels.

Crowley didn’t know what it meant. More accurately, Crowley refused to let himself think about what it could mean. It danced at the edge of his consciousness, teasing. The answer to the equation that was the thoughts and feelings and daydreams. He couldn’t get Mrs Ingels out his mind and he just couldn’t know why.

Worse still was the distance, somehow worse than being in the same room, feeling her warmth, her scent. As usual, Crowley had to move all over Tadfield and the neighbouring suburbs as he made his way down the list of places he had to cover. It was difficult, some days, excusing himself to his bosses as to why he kept returning. He had spun a lie about this customer being _extremely_ wealthy—he _knew_ he could wear her down, it would just take slightly longer than usual. He didn’t tell Mrs Ingels any of it—she didn’t really seem to understand how the business worked and Crowley didn’t want to show his hand more than he already had.

They had the phone now, at least, so that took some of the pressure off visiting more regularly. That was both a good and bad thing. Good, because Crowley could theoretically do his job and he was able to hide the more embarrassing of his actions when they weren’t speaking face to face. Bad, because Crowley wanted to look at Mrs Ingels and nothing else for the rest of his life. So perhaps it was still a good thing.

As Crowley had talked such a big game to his bosses about the inevitable—but still distant—sale, they pushed him harder and further away from where he wanted to be. Part of it was just the regular schedule, but Crowley could tell that they noticed something dodgy. They just hadn’t confronted Crowley about it yet. So he had to struggle to fit meetings and telephone calls when he could, even as he grew more tired as the days passed.

But Crowley knew it was worth it. Mrs Ingels’ voice was like a balm to his soul. A lot of the time he forgot that he was trying to sell her a watch. Crowley would rather hear about her, her days and her dreams. She spoke some of her husband, though Crowley could tell there were some things she wasn’t telling him. That was alright, he couldn’t imagine going through such a loss. He learned all about her books and her knitting, how she loathed embroidery, that she loved sweets. That was obvious in the biscuits she kept foisting on him, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her that he didn’t really have a sweet tooth.

Crowley too brought his own gifts, and his own stories. Although Tadfield was quiet and sleepy he had managed to find a few things here and there, though mostly closer to his flat than not. Some chocolates, some tea. Mrs Ingels seemed pleased but also uncomfortable at the gestures, so Crowley returned to only bringing himself.

It was strange, in hindsight, to realise how lonely he was. Before meeting Mrs Ingels, Crowley had thought himself content working alone, living alone, spending the majority of his time, alone. He excused it with the fact that he spent all day talking to people, and he got to see both the best and worst of humanity (the worst mostly consisting of his employers). It was easy to ignore how much pleasant interactions changed his mood, how much they brought him joy. He chalked it up to a job well done, seeing as they often—but not always—coincided with a sale. Crowley had had to be independent for so long that he didn’t really know how to be anything else.

Of course, he soon discovered that Mrs Ingels had a bit of a bastard streak within her. She could be critical and snooty and catty and what a delight that was to discover. He would lose his carefully allotted time being thoroughly entertained and was forced to speed to another appointment more than once. For posterity’s sake, Crowley often mumbled something vaguely about their catalogue or products at the end. Mrs Ingels played along wonderfully, assuring him that she really had to sleep on it, or she hadn’t made up her mind _quite_ yet. Crowley promised her that it was perfectly, beautifully, wonderfully fine and that he would see her next time.

The thought of the upcoming next time distracted Crowley so much that he was late in putting in his paperwork. He didn’t like being in the office—both because it was such an inhospitable place to begin with and the risk of being caught by his bosses. It was such a stark contrast between how he felt around Mrs Ingels and pretty much anywhere else, but especially his workplace. It was being back there that tugged at the vague ideas in his mind of quitting and doing something, literally anything else. But Crowley couldn’t think about that now. He had quotas to fill.

Crowley was just about finishing the last page when someone burst into his office unannounced. He jumped and looked up at the door to find Mr Lagorio, his direct supervisor, haunting the doorway.

“Hello, Anthony. Funny seeing you here,” he announced as he all but waltzed in. His name in his mouth made Crowley feel slimy.

“Just finishing up some paperwork, sir,” Crowley said in lieu of reminding him that he _did_ actually work here. Smart remarks never got him far.

“How… studious of you,” Mr Lagorio settled on. “How have sales been, lately?”

The look he was given made Crowley feel like a bug under a glass. He had to play this carefully.

“Fine, sir. More rural suburbs like Tadfield are less likely to buy our products, but I’m doing well, all things considered.”

“Ah yes, Tadfield.” Mr Lagorio ran a finger across the edge of Crowley’s desk and inspected his skin for dust. Crowley swallowed and cursed himself for not cleaning up. It was obvious how long he hadn’t been in. “What was that you told me? Some rich bint with a dead husband?”

Crowley counted to ten in his head to stop himself from rushing to defend Mrs Ingels. “Ah, yes. The widow. House to herself, no kids, all of her husbands money. She’s just a bit indecisive. You know how ladies get about their fashions.” Crowley had never hated himself more than in this conversation.

The supervisor let out a low chuckle and Crowley’s hair stood on end. “Of course,” he smirked. “Since you are our _star salesman,_ it should be no trouble to close the deal, right?”

“Of course not, sir. No trouble at all.”

“Excellent. You have two weeks.”

Crowley blinked at him. “Sir?”

“To close the deal, of course. If it’s such a promising sale, you have two weeks. In either case soon you’ll be sent… farther a field, shall we say?”

“Of course.” Mr Lagorio raised an eyebrow at him. “Sir,” Crowley amended miserably.

Mr Lagorio knocked on the desk suddenly and Crowley flinched. He smiled and chuckled, walking out of the room.

He paused once more in the doorway. “And Anthony? If I found out that you’ve been lying to us, you’ll most certainly regret it.”

Crowley swallowed and nodded, not trusting his voice for the moment. He held his breath until he could no longer hear the retreating footsteps and slumped into his chair. Mr Lagorio was usually all talk—he seemed to enjoy threatening and posturing more than actually doing anything concrete to make Crowley’s life particularly miserable.

But this time it felt more real.

Crowley didn’t know what he was going to do. He didn’t want to take Mrs Ingels’ money—he knew how shoddy their watches had become, and he couldn’t con her like that. But admitting that this was how Crowley made a living wasn’t an option either. And he certainly didn’t want to be sent away. He couldn’t bear it if he never saw her again. Especially with how she made him feel.

Crowley leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He really had liked this work at first. The independence, the freedom. But everything that had made Crowley enjoy it had been chipped away by the new management.

He felt at a crossroads. He could stay in his job—miserable, but stable. Wasting his years on shoddy watches, working for bosses who seemed to loathe his very being, and looking back with fondness over his brief friendship with Mrs Ingels. Or he could quit. Take his skills, the few he had, and start a new venture. What that would be, Crowley had no idea. But he would be free of this misery. And free to keep seeing Mrs Ingels.

God, Crowley really hated this place.

* * *

It was a few days before Crowley worked the courage up again to visit Mrs Ingels. He didn’t really know what to say to her—about work, about how he felt. It all seemed to intangible and huge and human words were far too small to even come close.

It was his day off. He couldn’t go through regular calls with her on his mind, especially after what Mr Lagorio said. He would be far too distracted and wouldn’t do his job properly, which was the opposite of what he needed at the moment.

Maybe if she bought something—of her own volition, voluntarily—even if it was small, his bosses would take it as a promise of more, and Crowley could be left alone? Even that prospect made Crowley feel queasy. He didn’t like thinking about how deceptive Sedah had become. Most of his paying customers were neglectful husbands and Crowley didn’t mind that the watches would soon break on them. But someone like Mrs Ingels. Well, she deserved the world. Not a crappy watch.

Nor a swindler like him, Crowley thought to himself, as he made his way through Tadfield. His wrestled with himself—most of the time he could justify his work—after all, weren’t there hundreds of dodgy politicians doing far worse? Sometimes it crept up on him, and he was filled with remorse.

As he paused at the traffic lights Crowley glanced over at the passenger seat and realised he hadn’t even brought his case. He wasn’t even holding up the illusion of this solely being a business relationship.

He couldn’t face Mrs Ingels that afternoon. He was too worked up and he didn’t want her to see him when he was so low. Crowley hit the accelerator and drove past the turn, further to the centre of town and the village shops.

It wasn’t much of a highstreet but it was there all the same. Mrs Ingels said there were bigger ones in the town over, and the bus went right past her house anyway. At least there was a chippy. Chips didn’t solve all of Crowley’s problems but they certainly made him feel better.

He found a park down the side street and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He was dressed as usual but he appeared disheveled. Another thing he had forgotten that morning was to shave, apparently.

Crowley sighed and got out of the car, checking that he at least had his wallet and keys with him. He did, and that was the main thing. He doubted that the ducks in the nearby park cared about his scruff.

He walked up towards the shops, gaze trained upwards towards the remarkably blue sky. It was almost the colour of Mrs Ingels’ eyes. Crowley then kicked himself. How had _he_ become this sappy, so quickly? He drove fast and wore all black and loved rock and roll. Here he had gone soft for some women he had met less than two months ago!

Another set of thoughts loomed at the back of his mind, other ones he didn’t particularly want to deal with. Ones about just how soft and queer he was. And how much a sensible, _normal_ woman like Mrs Ingels wouldn’t like that one bit.

He was quickly distracted by the sounds of someone struggling up ahead. Crowley barely registered her vague outline before he had rushed to her aid.

She was carrying far more bags than she had hands. Her purse, groceries, and another bag of some purchase all jostled for balance and clearly gravity got the best of her. Fortunately Crowley had quick reflexes and he ducked before the fallen packages hit the ground.

They managed to collect them all, now with the appropriate number of hands between them, and Crowley stood up to hand them over.

Oh.

It was Mrs Ingels, because the universe had nothing if not a sense of humour. They were standing so close together, their faces a few centimetres apart. Crowley could see her so clearly now, feel her warmth, breathe in her calming scent. The position of the packages meant they were all but pressed together, the objects tightly propped up between their arms. Crowley felt his face flush.

“Mr Crowley,” she greeted, breathless with the excitement.

“Mrs Ingels.”

They stared at one another, eyes locked together. Had they been this close before? Crowley would have remembered, certainly. Or else, as he feared, the nerves would wipe his memory of it clean and dissolve into a faint impression. He wanted to study her, stare at her for hours. He knew it was wrong but he didn’t care.

Crowley’s mental walls started crashing down, one on top of the other, like fallen dominoes. Slowly, slowly.

She shifted and the packages rustled ominously. Instinctively they pressed closer together. God, they were so close.

“I, I thank you for rescuing me, as it were. My goodness, I can hardly believe it. Whatever are you doing here?”

The more sensible move to get her settled and for him to back away didn’t even cross Crowley’s mind. He could have stayed like that forever.

Crowley blinked, and realised he was obliged to answer her question. “I, ah, just grabbing some chips, actually. They do nice ones… here.”

His aborted hand gesture to the nearby shop transformed into an awkward head toss. God, he sounded like a right fool. But she had him tongue-tied and flustered, as always. Always thrown off his usual swagger and confidence.

Mrs Ingels dipped her head, her pink lips curling into a small, beautiful smile. “Fortunate for me, it seems,” she murmured. She glanced up at him through her eyelashes.

Crash. Crowley realised he was staring at her lips, absolutely transfixed, when had he _ever_ been fascinated by that facial feature in his entire life?

Crash. A slight breeze wafted her scent forward, right into him. She smelled like heaven. She smell like home. Crowley had to stop his eyes from closing at the intoxication.

Crash. Did Mrs Ingels press slightly closer on purpose, or was it to avoid the wind? They were so close they could almost kiss. God, Crowley wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her like he had never wanted to kiss anyone else. _He wanted to kiss her, he_ never _wanted to kiss_ anyone—

Boom.

It struck Crowley like lightning.

He loved Mrs Ingels.

He was in love with Mrs Ingels.

The clarity hit him all at once and Crowley struggled to not collapse under the weight of it as he was forced to maintain some appearance of normality.

“Um,” Crowley began dumbly as he stared down at the items between them. “Would you perhaps, um, like a lift home?” He looked back up at her, willing himself not to be so obviously infatuated. “My car is only back a short way and, well, I don’t think we’d manage juggling all this whilst walking, if I were honest.”

Mrs Ingels looked away for a moment then looked back at him. “Oh, I don’t think that would be proper…” she began, but her eyes betrayed a different view.

Crowley was one to take women at their words, but he wasn’t imagining it, was he? The glance, the fluttering of the eyelashes… Could she be _flirting_ with him?

It was too much to even think about. “Let me do this for you. Please,” he implored.

He knew he sounded desperate but had so little control of his faculties that he couldn’t help it. It was probably too much, too soon. An angel like her deserved to be properly wooed, not propositioned in the street (though that was the farthest thing from Crowley’s mind). He wanted to bite his own tongue off.

“Alright,” she agreed. She agreed! With a bright smile and sparkling eyes and everything. Crowley had to tamp down his own goofy grin that threatened to appear.

Some murmuring, then, as they finally righted themselves. They shifted the bags so Mrs Ingels held her purse and one lot of groceries. Crowley held the others.

They walked down the street together, but separately. An attempt at keeping a proper distance between them, though the small suburban footpath didn’t really allow for that. It seemed they kept drifting into one another, even on the short distance to the car. He couldn’t hear the traffic, didn’t notice the other customers walking to and from the shops. Crowley felt like they were the only two people in the whole wide world.

All too soon they were back at his car. Mrs Ingels had already seen it, but she still smiled sweetly at Crowley as if to convey how impressed she was by the vehicle. They finally had something to balance the bags on and Crowley managed to put them down and retrieve his keys without breaking anything.

He deposited Mrs Ingels’ groceries in the back then quickly rushed around the open her door for her. Crowley had to duck his head at the bright beam of her smile at the gesture. She patted his arm and even though the touch was brief Crowley’s skin ached underneath the layers of fabric.

Crowley carefully shut the door, mindful of not catching her dress, and strode around to get in himself.

There he realised a major problem in his plan.

They were now sat together, in a small space, with nothing separating them but the air.

He swallowed tightly and put the key in the ignition.

“Home, then?” Crowley asked and closed his eyes briefly in horror. He opened them and continued to stare straight ahead, worried if he glanced to his left he would do something he would regret.

“I mean. Do you have any other errands for today or should I drop you straight home, Mrs Ingels?”

“Just home.”

Crowley nodded and hastily pulled out of the park. He had flicked on the radio automatically, though it was still low enough that conversation could be heard if he was able to make it.

He could feel Mrs Ingels turning towards him and Crowley did his best to keep his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

“And I would like it if you call me Aziraphale, I think.”

Fucking hell. It was a beautiful name, though unusual, and he briefly wondered what the origin of it was before he was overwhelmed by the request. Crowley was quickly becoming intimately familiar as to why all those poets were so tortured. Love felt like dying.

He nodded and attempted to moisten his suddenly parched mouth. “Alright.” Crowley turned up the volume to cover up his pained silence.

Fortunately a song he knew came on, and the familiarity did something to ease his jittery nerves. The mirror was both a blessing and the curse. It was easier to steal a glance but it filled Crowley with that same thrill-fear Mrs Ingels—Aziraphale—had been making him feel. For far longer than Crowley had realised, it seemed.

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel absentmindedly.

It seemed Aziraphale was staring out the window with a small smile. That also helped Crowley to relax.

At the next lights he looked briefly into the backseat. Besides the emotional turmoil it was so easy to sit here next to Aziraphale. To listen to the radio and just drive. It was… perfect, really. Crowley hadn’t spent a great deal of time contemplating his future but this felt like what it could be. He and Aziraphale in contended silence on their way home.

Far too quickly Crowley had pulled into her driveway. The nerves that had disappeared on the journey reared their ugly heads once more as the possibilities spread out before him. Wasn’t that what happened in all the films—the guy rescued the girl and then she kissed him in thanks? He didn’t want to be thanked like that, certainly, like somehow she _owed_ him, but the chance was still there. Especially with Aziraphale’s passion for romances.

She got out before he did and Crowley took a moment to breathe before he followed her to help carry the bags. They smiled across from each other, standing either side of the backseat.

As he pulled back, Crowley hit his head inside the door.

“Mr Crowley! Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked across the roof of the car, now that they were both standing.

Crowley shut his door and went to walk towards the front of her house. “I’m fine!” He promised, though it stung something awful. He blinked away the tears that had welled up with the pain.

He could feel her eyes on the back of his head but he really couldn’t take her fussing on top of everything else. She managed to find her keys and unlock the house, stepping inside and clearly expecting him to follow.

Crowley slowly—carefully—placed the bags he had been carrying in front of the threshold.

“Won’t you come in, Mr Crowley?” Aziraphale had stepped aside to almost lean on the door, the space next to her open wide for him.

Crowley stuck his hands in his pockets and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs I— I mean, _Aziraphale_ ,” he corrected. “I really must be going.”

Her face fell. “Of course,” she said quietly. “I shan’t keep you if you have other places to be.”

It was like a dagger in his heart. But Crowley couldn’t in good faith play happy families when he knew how he felt. It didn’t seem fair to either of them. “It was lovely seeing you. It really was.”

“Indeed. Mind how you go then, dear.”

Crowley nodded and turned away.

When he got back into his car, Crowley saw that Aziraphale hadn’t moved. She still stood in the doorway, bag and purse clutched in her hands. She was watching him.

He turned the ignition and pulled out. Crowley drove away from a beautiful angel, back toward his sad and lonely life.


	5. A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale reflects on her relationship with Mr Crowley and comes to a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you use the gregorian calendar, a very happy new year to you, let's start it with some ANGST lmao. but for real, this and the next chapter are about as angsty as it gets (not that much imo but idk your tastes), so strap in. I 100% understand if you want to wait until things get more resolved and fluffy in ch7 and beyond, you'll just have to wait a couple of weeks. it will all turn out more than okay, I promise!
> 
> there is now a chapter summary in the end notes if you want to skip the angst. 
> 
> cw allusions to transphobia

Never did Aziraphale believe that an average trip to purchase some groceries would end so disastrously.

It would have ended more disastrously if Mr Crowley hadn’t been there, she told herself. What was she thinking, attempting to carry all of that? It’s only that the secondhand shop had some wonderful looking books and she could hardly resist the temptation. But then of course her balance was completely off and she would have dropped everything if it weren’t for the quick rescue.

And oh, what a rescue it was. So much for convincing herself that she wasn’t a fair maiden! Aziraphale wasn’t so embarrassed that she didn’t notice the look on Mr Crowley’s face when they stood up. When they were so close. From the outside it seemed that he had realised something big. Something Aziraphale had avoided thinking about ever since they had met.

And she had flirted with him! Aziraphale knew in her heart of hearts that that was what she had done, batting her eyelashes and looking him like that. She thought herself out of practice but apparently she took to it like a duck to water. What was she even hoping to achieve with it? With that, and inviting him to use her first name. Inviting him into her home. It went against every rational and sensible impulse in her body.

But that was the problem. All rational thought went out the window when it came to Mr Crowley. Aziraphale was reduced to a puddle of feelings and instinct, something she had never really experienced before. Something she had never entertained. Something she _shouldn’t_ entertain.

Aziraphale sighed and brought the rest of the bags in from where Mr Crowley had left them on the doorstep and shut the door behind her. She then preceded to hit her head against it a couple of times as she remembered her extreme foolishness.

After a few moments Aziraphale’s forehead ached and she felt no better than she had when Mr Crowley had declined her invitation and walked away. She hardly knew what to do with herself, she was so overwhelmed. But the groceries still needed to be put away.

Unfortunately Aziraphale was so distracted that her shoes ended up in the hallway and her coat on the sofa. She thought she managed to put everything else away in its rightful place, but she would come to discover some hours later that her new books had been shelved in the fridge, not the living room.

The problem was that everything felt so _clear._ So starkly clear, yet so impossible.

She loved Mr Crowley.

Aziraphale could no longer deny it, no longer chalk it up to being lonely, or being good friends, or even the few moments that he reminded her of Georgie. The late night phone calls and the visits and the gifts and everything. It wasn’t just friendliness. It wasn’t simply being familiar and comfortable with somebody.

Aziraphale thought he might feel the same and that somehow made everything _worse._ If Mr Crowley had some hope, some expectation of her, of this, it would end up devastating them both. Aziraphale knew she should have cut things off early. Sent him away. Rejected his affections. But she was weak and enamoured and stupidly hoped things would turn out differently, hoped it would all be okay.

As she tracked to and from the door the same conversation played on a loop in her mind. Could he? No, of course not. But maybe… No. Absolutely not.

Aziraphale came to in the kitchen, standing and staring out the window with little recollection as to where the afternoon had disappeared. Weren’t we all fools in love?

She forced herself to sit down at the very least and happened upon the notepad where she had written down all those qualities of Mr Crowley’s some weeks ago. It had helped then—getting it out of her head, at least. Perhaps it would work now.

Aziraphale needed to explore all of the possibilities—the wonderful, unlikely ones, and those that were less pleasant.

If she told Mr Crowley of her love, what could happen?

The first was of course, rejection. His reciprocation was a figment of Aziraphale’s overactive imagination and he really had been going through with all of this out of the goodness of his heart. Or the desire to get a sale. It would sting, of course, but perhaps they could be friends?

Another consequence of telling him would be akin to disgust. She knew the risks. She knew what others thought of girls like her. Aziraphale had been so fortunate to meet Georgie all those years ago in that library and even luckier that he accepted her for what she was. Mr Crowley could leave and never return at best, inform the whole neighbourhood, or other things that didn’t bare thinking about at worst.

From what Aziraphale had gathered from knowing him, even this short while, was that he was a sweet and kind man. She didn’t believe he would react in such a way, but it was possible. It was possible this whole thing had been a charade, just to close the deal.

There were more possibilities, too. That he reciprocated, but he feelings ceased once she told him the whole truth. That it would be impossible for him to be with someone like her. That he wanted little more than a fling. That this happened with women all over the country, despite what he said. That he was queer, too. That he loved her back, completely.

Aziraphale stood up at that last line and went to the radio. It would be a useful distraction, to drown out all the conflicting voices in her head. She switched it on and waited for whatever would be playing on her favourite station. It took a few moments for her to process the words and she quickly turned it off. A love song, of course, because the universe didn’t laugh at her enough.

She spun around and stormed off to the bedroom, the one place in the house where Crowley hadn’t been. Aziraphale flung herself back onto the bed, not even concerned about wrinkling her dress.

The ceiling didn’t give her any inspiration. It was blank and cold.

Aziraphale rolled over and picked up the photo of Georgie that usually rested on the nightstand.

“What a pickle I’ve found myself in, Georgie,” she murmured to him. “The second love of my life, just within my reach, and yet,” Aziraphale cut herself off with a sigh.

“I miss you, you know. I didn’t think it was possible to miss someone this much,” her breath hitched as her eyes filled with tears. Aziraphale paused and ran a finger down his cheek. “It was so easy with you, once it was all out in the open. We never fought a day in our lives. It was remarkably simple, despite what the world had set out for us. I wish this could be easier.”

Aziraphale placed the picture carefully back on the nightstand and stared at it. “I know I shouldn’t risk it, Georgie. It’s too much, it’s so unlikely that he’ll love me like you did. No one could love me like you did, I know, and yet I long for it. I love him, Georgie,” Aziraphale wept, now overcome with tears and emotion. “I love him.”

Aziraphale continued to cry for a long while, the build up of the past few weeks washing over her in wave after wave. It exhausted her, left her with nothing but salty cheeks. She drifted off into a restless sleep.

* * *

Aziraphale had woken up around dinner time and managed to go through the ritual of the evening meal and promptly returned to bed. The next day she rose far later than she normally would and did her best to put the whole thing out of her mind. She had needed the rest after the emotional turmoil of yesterday.

Aziraphale tried to keep her hands busy, as the action soothed and calmed her racing thoughts. She spent a long time on the morning’s crossword, only needing to look up two words to complete the whole thing. Then she picked up her knitting. She was working on an intricate lace shawl and it required so much concentration that she simply couldn’t think of anything else.

She was interrupted at lunch time by the ringing of the telephone.

Aziraphale’s head shot up and her hand slipped, causing one of the needles to poke not-too-gently into her hand.

“Ow,” she muttered to herself and rubbed the sore spot as she got up to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hi, uh, Aziraphale. It’s me. Crowley. I wanted to check in with you after yesterday, see if you were alright?”

Aziraphale sank down into the chair next to the telephone. “Yesterday?”

“Yes. With the groceries and all? I realised I never asked if it was simply the balance of the situation or something else that caused you to, ah, slip, as it were.”

Aziraphale’s eyes fell shut, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of the man she shouldn’t be in love with. “I’m fine, my dear,” she really needed to cease _that_ habit, “all in one piece.”

There was a delay in Mr Crowley’s response. “I’m certainly glad to here it. Are you sure that you’re okay, Aziraphale? It’s only you seem a little… quieter, than usual.”

“Oh, it’s just a bit of a headache, don’t mind me,” she said. What was one lie on top of all the others?

“Then my ringing could hardly help! You better go rest, then. Do take care, Aziraphale and I’ll talk to you soon, alright?”

“Alright. Goodbye.”

“Bye now.”

Why did he have to be so… _nice_ about everything? It made all of this so much more difficult.

Aziraphale slumped into the chair, pouting at her current circumstances. She didn’t know what to do. She truly had no idea what she was _meant_ to do, with her feelings and their friendship and all of it. It was like she was at a crossroads but instead of a clear forked path, what lay in front of her was a veritable labyrinth.

What she really wanted to do was lie about the house and feel sorry for herself.

But the familiar clattering of the post peaked her interest. Perhaps Marjorie’s wise words would help her decide which road to take.

Aziraphale forced herself to get up and retrieved the post, then took it to the little writing desk she kept in the corner by the bookshelf. She used the nearby opener to split the top open and began to read.

_Dear Aziraphale,_

_I’m happy to learn that you are well and have some new excitement in your life! Things here are about the same as usual, working and playing as much as I can. A few new students for French lessons, as it were, which is keeping me quite busy._

_I am quite intrigued by this salesman of yours, I have to say. Although you haven’t said so on the page, it’s clear that you’re quite gone on him, Aziraphale. He seems kind and thoughtful, and very handsome from your descriptions. However, I do have to be frank, lovey, and be a bit of a voice of reason. _

_As much as you_ do _know this Mr Crowley, you_ have _only known him for a few months. And I do so I hate to rain on your parade, I really do, but you do not properly know him as of yet. You can’t, without putting yourself at risk. I wish I could encourage you to pursue this crush of yours, I really do. It sounds like this man has brought a lot of happiness into your life for which I am very grateful. But I can’t help but look at the circumstances of it all—he is a salesman, and he is wanting to sell you something—watches, was it? I do hope I’m wrong. I hope he feels the same and loves you—all of you—as much as you deserve. But you have to be realistic, please, for your own sake. Put your feelings aside and consider the facts of the situation. Does he care about you, or the money? And if he does care about you, do you think it’s likely that he would care about all of you, or only the woman he assumes you to be?_

_As I said I do very much hope I’m wrong about all this and that neither of us have anything to worry about. You do deserve to love again, Aziraphale. But please keep you and your heart safe._

_With love,_

_Marjorie_

Well that wasn’t what Aziraphale wanted to hear at all.

Firstly, she was shocked that Marjorie had deduced her feelings for Mr Crowley before she had herself. Had Aziraphale truly been that obvious? That was particularly concerning—did Mr Crowley suspect that of her? Did he know what was in her heart?

The rest of the letter was also a worry. Oh bother, Marjorie _did_ tend to give Aziraphale sage advice (which she chalked up to her powers of "seeing beyond the veil"), but at that moment she really wished that wasn’t the case.

Aziraphale knew Marjorie was right and that made her angry. She _had_ been getting away from herself. She’d been walking around with this daydream fantasy of hers that everything would just turn out fine and dandy. And she knew how untrue that was—these were some of the very first thoughts she had had when she met Mr Crowley all those weeks ago. Aziraphale had all but thrown him out because she knew she should keep them distanced!

She had forgotten herself. Forgotten her head and indulged her heart. Her rationality had been put aside completely. Aziraphale bit her lip and frowned at the paper in front of her. The problem was was that she didn’t wish to let her fantasy go.

She hoped beyond hope that Mr Crowley would be everything she dreamed. That he would love her in return and accept the whole of her. But she knew Marjorie was right. Look for the facts, she had said. Aziraphale had to review them. Properly review them, outside of this haze of love she had been walking around in.

Aziraphale attempted to catalogue all of their interactions so far. The only time she could remember Mr Crowley speaking about relationships directly was when they spoke on the phone, and she all but accused him of sleeping with his clientele. What was it that he had said? That he was looking for commitment, wasn’t it?

Well, that was one thing in her favour. Aziraphale didn’t think herself capable of something casual with all that she felt for him.

Besides that… She tapped her pen against her lip as she thought. When he drove her home he stumbled over referring to her home as home plainly. That, in addition to the little she knew about his childhood, could be inferred to mean that he indeed felt more comfortable there than his own flat. But it could have simply been Mr Crowley misspeaking.

Aziraphale cursed under her breath. Half the the time Mr Crowley seemed flushed and uncomfortable and had given all manner of excuses to _leave_ her house, too! She was back to square one.

Outside of that, Aziraphale had nothing explicit to go on. It was all down to body language and inferences and her seemingly false hopes. He had called her angel a couple of times, but she also habitually slipped into calling everyone dear. Mr Crowley had been kind and courteous and friendly—why had Aziraphale assumed that he would automatically have romantic feelings for her? Why had she bypassed the notion that he could indeed want her companionship as a friend?

Aziraphale only grew more frustrated with herself the longer she thought about the situation. It appeared that she had been fitting the so-called ‘evidence’ to the story she was telling herself, not looking at the story that the objective facts made altogether. A story of a nice, perhaps lonely, salesman showing a grieving widow some kindness.

Aziraphale felt her heart sink as she came to understood this reality. She had made an awful amount of assumptions about Mr Crowley—about his feelings, about their future together. It had been a nice tale to tell herself and to comfort her, but that was all it was—a story. Time and time again she had pushed aside the significance of her being who she was and had pretended that everything would work out, even when she knew how wrong that was. The hurt began to bloom inside Aziraphale but she was still grateful to Marjorie to confronting her before it was too late. Before she made an utter fool of herself.

She set about composing her response to her friend’s letter. Aziraphale was now resolved to break things off with Mr Crowley and she wrote as much, but how was she meant to do so? Particularly as he dictated so many of their interactions simply by the fact he had her telephone number and a car and she had neither.

Ending things over the telephone didn’t sit right with her. It felt cowardly, to not face him and her feelings properly. Aziraphale had demonstrated to herself that nothing other than friendship was likely there, but even that relationship garnered too much risk. There was the small, infinitesimal chance that Mr Crowley _did_ possess romantic feelings towards her and in that case, continuing on as they had would only allow those feelings to further develop. As much as Aziraphale wished to continue the friendship, how could she possibly have a true friendship if she couldn’t tell Mr Crowley the most basic of truths about her? She would always have to maintain her secrets, always remain fearful about him finding out and thus it could only remain superficial.

Aziraphale simply had to end things in person. It was the only way to convince both of them that it was truly over. But how was she to end things without showing her hand too much? Without talking about their possibly one-sided friendship?

She glanced over Marjorie’s letter once more. Of course. Mr Crowley was a _salesman—_ all this time she had been pretending to consider which of Sedah’s products she was going to purchase. Aziraphale would ask for the order form and go through with the transaction. The arrangement she had proposed all those weeks ago would be concluded. She didn’t particularly _want_ to purchase the watch, but Aziraphale reasoned that she would always have a memento of her foolishness in case such a situation like this arose again.

Her mind made up, Aziraphale finished writing her letter. She set it aside as she tidied herself enough to be decent as she walked down the street to the post box. She was determined to send it before she changed her mind.

It was only a short walk down the street and then there was no going back. The letter was in the post box and if Aziraphale didn’t follow through, she would have to tell Marjorie. Marjorie wasn’t mean and wouldn’t hold it over her head, but the disappoint would be too much for her to bear.

Aziraphale hoped Mr Crowley would visit her before he telephoned again. It would be so awkward going through the motions of the call with what she now knew. Still, she couldn’t blame him for what had transpired—Aziraphale only had her overactive imagination to blame. She had been so silly to think that she would find someone like Georgie again and she had put these expectations all on a man she hardly knew!

Mr Crowley had only been doing his job. That’s all it had been. He had even told her that housewives like her tended to talk to him all about their problems and hopes because they were lonely. Aziraphale wasn’t special. Well, outside of one glaringly obvious factor that probably would have caused Mr Crowley to end things regardless.

It was only early afternoon but Aziraphale got undressed to just her slip and shuffled into bed, feeling quite sorry for herself. She found herself mourning what she thought was there—friendship, the beginnings of a romance. Although she could now see it for what it was, she still loved Mr Crowley. Those feelings weren’t going to disappear in an instant. They swirled inside her as she lay under the duvet, mixed with anxiety and doubt; regret and sadness.

* * *

Aziraphale spent the next few days worrying herself sick. Her nights were restless and she was kept up by her racing thoughts. Again and again she returned to the question of whether she was doing the right thing.

She had received Marjorie’s reply, saying how proud she was of Aziraphale and reassuring her that it was for the best. That it was good for her to end things before her feelings became even deeper.

Aziraphale had expected it to comfort her but it only left her with a bitter taste in her mouth.

Her brooding was interrupted by a confident knock at the door.

Aziraphale froze, the sick feeling only growing more intense before she forced herself to answer it. She hardly had time to check her hair and lipstick before she opened it to reveal…

The vicar.

Gabriel stood there beaming in his black suit and collar. He truly had the worst timing.

Aziraphale tried to fix a smile on her face and felt a small amount of gratitude that the whole business with Mr Crowley had at least caused her to clean the house thoroughly. She knew Gabriel would still find fault with her work, but she felt somewhat comforted by the fact.

“Gabriel!” Aziraphale exclaimed, mostly out of concealed annoyance than anything else. “Won’t you please come in?”

Aziraphale had long since learned to anticipate Gabriel’s moves, like this were in some kind of unspoken chess game. Not inviting him in would extend the interaction by at least three minutes and those were precious minutes that Aziraphale could spend doing anything else.

He all but charged in and made his way to the kitchen, carefully looking about the room on his way. Aziraphale barely restrained herself from making rude gestures at his back. For a man so supposedly holy as he, Gabriel seemed to only bring out the worst in her.

“Tea and biscuits, then?” She offered as she bustled about the kitchen.

“No biscuits for me, thank you. 1 Corinthians 6:19, _your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit,_ not shortbread.”

Aziraphale put several of the biscuits on her own plate just to spite him.

“How are you, Gabriel? How are things at the parish?” Hopefully that would be enough to get him talking for a long while and she wouldn’t have to contribute.

Aziraphale’s wish came true as Gabriel set off on a long, running tangent that required absolutely no input from her. She was left free to enjoy her biscuits and pretend to listen.

“...the garden. Mrs Ingels?”

“What?” She asked, blinking out of her stupor. “I mean, pardon me, I didn’t quite catch that last bit.”

Gabriel gave her a smarmy smile. “I was complimenting the changes you’ve made to the garden. It’s looking much better than last I saw.”

It felt like a dagger to the heart. The garden was only flourishing because of the instruction she had received from Mr Crowley.

“I, well, thank you. From your… instructive note I decided to…” What could she possibly say? “Pick up a gardening book from the library,” she settled on and sipped her tea to swallow down the lie.

“Finally you borrowed something useful rather than all those frivolous novels you’re reading! And I have to say, Mrs Ingels, we have been missing you on Sundays,” he said, squinting and smiling at her condescendingly. “What can we do to get your attendance back up?”

This was the most dreaded topic of conversation. Aziraphale didn’t feel much welcomed at the parish, certainly not by the vicar. He reminded her far too much of her parents and the parish in which she grew up—strict, unquestioning, unaccepting. When she and Georgie had first moved to Tadfield she had gone to mass—alone, of course—hoping to find a welcoming community so different from what she had known. She had been wrong.

Aziraphale struggled to find a response to Gabriel’s question but was interrupted by a second knock at the door.

She all but ran in her haste to get away from the current conversation, barely managing to get out a polite “excuse me” as she strode away from the kitchen. She hardly thought of who might possibly be on the other side and she didn’t much care. God, Gabriel was a right prick.

Aziraphale swung the door open and found herself speechless.

Mr Crowley stood there, looking handsome as ever.

She was shocked and silent. Aziraphale couldn’t possibly have these two worlds colliding, and everything with Marjorie came rushing back, and she absolutely had no idea what she was meant to do. She must have looked a right fool but she was truly at a loss for words.

After a few moments, with Mr Crowley’s expression growing more concerned, Gabriel called out from the kitchen.

“Who’s there?”

Aziraphale flinched and unfroze, staring wide-eyed at Mr Crowley who seemed equally as shocked, now. She mouthed a quick ‘sorry’ at him as she turned to answer.

“No one, just a salesman!” She called out, brighter than she felt.

Aziraphale stepped forward and whispered to Mr Crowley, praying that Gabriel would not approach them. “Please come back tomorrow,” she began, then felt her stomach drop as she continued. “And bring the order form.”

She didn’t have time to stay and chat with the excuse she had given Gabriel and so Aziraphale all but closed the door on Mr Crowley’s face. Not before she saw the look of confusion transform into one of devastation as she turned away.

Aziraphale squeezed her eyes shut as she walked back, Mr Crowley’s face clear and painful in her mind. She couldn’t pretend for Gabriel now. She had to be alone.

She settled at the table and pushed away the rest of the biscuits.

“Some salesman, was it?” Gabriel asked as he drained his cup of tea. “Can’t abide them. Absolute devils they are.”

Aziraphale didn’t respond. Not even a hum of agreement. Only then did the vicar realise something was off.

“Are you alright Mrs Ingels? You look… well, paler than usual, I have to say.”

Aziraphale clutched her forehead. “I think I’m coming down with a headache. unfortunately. Womanly business, you know.”

Gabriel began to look strained and put down the teapot from where he had been going to pour himself another cup.

“Ah.” He hesitated for a moment, then stood. “I should take my leave of you, Mrs Ingels, and let you get some… rest, then. But do consider what I said about coming back to the parish, yes?”

Aziraphale nodded and stopped herself from throwing something at the ridiculous man in front of her.

He waited another moment, seeming as if he wanted her to walk him out, then thought better of it and left. Only when she heard the click of the front door did Aziraphale allow herself to relax.

Relax physically, at least. Her mind was in turmoil. Mr Crowley was to return tomorrow, Aziraphale would order a watch, and they would be done.

Aziraphale told herself to buck up, even with his face stuck firm in her mind. She was doing the right thing and his expression only confirmed that he had been growing too attached. Whether that was platonically or otherwise, it mattered little. Their relationship, as much as it had been, could no longer continue.

Marjorie was right. Aziraphale repeated the fact to herself until she felt it to be true. Even if Mr Crowley returned her affections, the relationship he would have expected of the woman he assumed her to be was impossible. It broke her heart, but it was true all the same.

Aziraphale found herself moved to tears. Losing the companionship, losing her _friend_ stung something awful. She didn't know what she would do after tomorrow. Perhaps, once the money came through, she would move far away and reinvent herself. Maybe she would get a cottage somewhere, perhaps even in the South Downs. Somewhere her neighbours weren't too close and prying. Where charming and handsome salesman didn't knock on one’s door and ruin one’s life.

Aziraphale wiped at her face, uncaring for her makeup. No one would see her, now. She suddenly felt totally exhausted and closed up the house on her way to bed. She appeared to be getting into the habit of going to bed ridiculously early, but what did it matter? No one else was around to care.

As Aziraphale pulled the curtains shut and slipped into her large bed, she somehow felt more lonely than she ever had before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Aziraphale reflects on her realisation that she is in love with Mr Crowley and worries about the consequences of telling him. He rings her to check that she is alright, but she lies about having a headache because she can't bear his kindness. A letter arrives from her penpal, Marjorie, who warns Aziraphale about being infatuated with a stranger (despite her not explicitly mentioning her feelings on the page). This letter causes Aziraphale to believe that her relationship with Mr Crowley has most likely been a fabrication in order for him to get the sale, and even a friendship would be impossible because of her gender. She considers how she is going to end the relationship and realises she has to purchase a watch, so their 'arrangement' is no longer necessary. Aziraphale writes to Marjorie and tells her she is going to end things to hold herself accountable. The vicar, Gabriel, pops in for a visit, much to her annoyance. Mr Crowley interrupts by knocking at the door and Aziraphale asks him to return the next day with the order form. He appears heartbroken, which only cements Aziraphale's feelings that she is doing the right thing. Aziraphale makes an excuse to get Gabriel to leave and goes to bed, also heartbroken. 
> 
> Although Aziraphale is generally 'stealth', she doesn't feel that she could be true friends with someone unless they knew that she was trans. This is not true of all trans people, and trans people do not owe anyone their trans status. "French lessons" is a euphemism for sex work, not for language instruction.
> 
> It will all be okay!!! In like two chapters time ;)


	6. C

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's version of events. A speech is planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary in the end notes if you want to skip the angst without missing the plot details. If I can get Chapter 8 edited, I might post Chapter 7 mid next week to end the angst-void early, but no guarantees because I am still dealing with things. 
> 
> cw allusions to masturbation, Crowley’s low self esteem/lack of self worth gets a bit angsty towards the end

Crowley kicked himself the whole way driving back to his flat. He loathed being sensible, being responsible. But he knew he couldn't let himself take Aziraphale up on the offer of being invited in. In staying longer. The realisation that he was in love with her was far too overwhelming to do anything but go straight home and lie down. It felt like all he was capable of.

He was in love. He was _in love._

Crowley had thought himself distracted before, but it was as if the proverbial floodgates had opened.

He clutched a pillow to his chest and rolled back and forth in bed. He felt positively giddy. Crowley found himself laughing aloud at nothing in particular. He didn't know what to do with all of this emotion.

The scene played over and over in his mind. Aziraphale, so close to him, close enough to touch. To kiss. And she had pressed closer! She had flirted with him! Crowley flipped over and screamed in the pillow. He could hardly believe it, even now.

But he could. He could believe it, now. That he could have this—romance, love, happiness, even. It was a strange notion to adjust to, but Crowley figured he would get it with practice.

That was another thing that gave Crowley pause. He didn't _have_ any practice with this. He didn't have any experience with dating, or the finer points of romance. In all honesty, he had no idea what he was doing.

And Aziraphale had been _married._ She was so much more knowledgeable than him. He didn't know how to feel about it, with men usually expected to dictate the whole thing. Not that Crowley was particularly good with any of that, either.

But he knew Aziraphale now. As much as he could, under the guise of friendship. He knew she wouldn't be unkind to him if he were honest with her. Only Crowley had yet to determine how honest he was going to be.

Brief flashes of potential conversation ran across his mind but he pushed them away. He had to tackle one thing at a time. Like asking her on a date. Even he knew it wouldn't do to confess his love before _that_ had happened.

But Crowley returned to those thoughts that had plagued him for weeks now. Even if he knew he shouldn't put the cart before the horse, he couldn't help but worry about the physical aspects of the (potential) relationship. Kissing, especially. What if he was awful at it?

The idea of it filled him with dread. Even if Crowley got past asking Aziraphale on a date and they made it to that stage of courtship, he could ruin it all with his inexperience! She might even have to teach him… And that distracted Crowley in a completely different direction. Crowley found his grip on the pillow go lax as he got caught up his imaginings. Aziraphale, being so careful and considerate with him. Holding him close and instructing him with soft words. Telling him how best to please her.

Crowley pressed his eyes shut tight and threw himself onto his back again. That wasn’t a train of thought he should be following right now. He had a date to plan.

He attempted to recall what his peers had done, back when his social circles were a little more broad. There were so many options and variables that he still wasn’t sure where to begin. Should Crowley bring her flowers? Aziraphale definitely deserved them but Crowley remembered how she had reacted to his few gifts before. So flowers or any gift before the date was out.

Where could he take her? Dinner was probably a good option, since it would allow them to get to know each other better through conversation. But perhaps the cinema would be less pressure because there was far less talking required. Dancing was quite romantic, from what Crowley could tell, but would she think him forward, wanting to hold her all night?

Crowley groaned and scrubbed at his face. Dinner was probably the best option, or perhaps just getting a drink if she really didn’t want to spend that long with him. From what he could tell Aziraphale didn’t have a lot going on but perhaps a Friday or Saturday night would be best all the same. Maybe Friday, in case she had to get up for mass. Did she go to mass? God, there was so much he didn’t know about her.

Crowley would have to find a restaurant nearby. As much as he wanted to take her somewhere flash, as fancy as she deserved, it would probably be strange to drive her miles and miles for their first date.

This all hinged on whether she said yes, of course.

Crowley sighed. He would prepare as much as he could, but not so much that it seemed… rehearsed. As if he were playing a part, even if that was how he sort of felt. He wanted to ring and check to see if she was alright after the groceries, at least, but held himself off. He would leave it a day and ring tomorrow. Give them both some space and see if she had been flirting with him or if he had been imagining it.

Crowley pottered around the flat until it was time to go to bed. He thought a shower might bring him some clarity or at least calm him down enough to go to sleep. He should have known that it would lead to other activities. Crowley had never been more aware of his body than he had in the past few weeks.

He rinsed off again and switched off the shower. Crowley stood there for a moment longer, as the water started to cool on his skin. He took a few deep breaths. Well. He did feel like he could sleep now, anyway.

He stepped out and dried himself, avoiding his gaze in the foggy mirror. Despite his realisation of love, guilt still thrummed inside him whenever he thought of Aziraphale like that. No matter what Crowley did, _all_ of his thoughts came back to her—intimate or not. He had only ever felt these things for her, anyway, and his futile attempts to transform his fantasies into generic pictures never succeeded.

Crowley haphazardly pulled on some pyjama trousers and got into bed, hoping the clothing would keep his dreams decent, at least. He knew it probably wouldn’t work, but he hoped anyway. There was only so much laundry he could take.

* * *

The next day Crowley tried to shake off the pleasant dreams and return to the reality of the situation. He and Aziraphale weren’t together yet. She hadn’t said yes yet. He had to try to stay on task.

It was pouring with rain out, so Crowley decided to take the morning off to catch up on some paperwork. The paperwork took all of half an hour, of course, and he was left to occupy his time until the afternoon. He had said he would wait a day to call Aziraphale and that meant he would ring her after lunch.

It was difficult, but Crowley managed it, if barely. Not only did he do paperwork and take care of the plants, but he even cleaned a little. It was much less dull to lay on the sofa and daydream about Aziraphale but he had been at least a little productive.

After a quick lunch Crowley had spent quite a while drumming his fingers on the table before he decided he couldn’t wait any longer. He crossed the room and dialled Aziraphale’s number, mentally reminding himself that he was going to ask how she was and let her steer the rest of the conversation.

A few rings and the line was picked up. “Hello?”

Crowley tried to tamp down the smile on his face. “Hi, uh, Aziraphale. It’s me. Crowley,” what a great opening, he thought to himself. “I wanted to check in with you after yesterday, see if you were alright?”

A moment’s pause.“Yesterday?”

Crowley frowned. Did she not remember?

“Yes. With the groceries and all? I realised I never asked if it was simply the balance of the situation or something else that caused you to, ah, slip, as it were.”

“I’m fine, my dear.” _My dear._ Crowley’s heart thumped in his chest. “All in one piece.”

Aziraphale sounded… off and he wondered what it could be, and how he could tactfully inquire about that. “I’m certainly glad to hear it. Are you sure that you’re okay, Aziraphale? It’s only you seem a little… quieter, than usual.” Crowley hoped it wasn’t anything he had done.

“Oh, it’s just a bit of a headache, don’t mind me.”

She was ill, then, nothing more. Crowley felt relieved, even if he had to cut their conversation short. “Then my ringing could hardly help! You better go rest, then. Do take care, Aziraphale and I’ll talk to you soon, alright?”

“Alright. Goodbye.”

“Bye now,” he replied, hoping to convey warmth in his tone and hung up.

Well. That certainly hadn’t been ideal but it couldn’t be helped. Crowley would simply have to return to the drawing board.

He could ring again, he supposed. Tomorrow at the earliest. He wanted to see her again. Wanted to be near her.

A visit wouldn’t be too out of the ordinary—it had indeed been what Crowley had been doing this entire time. It felt more momentous with his realisation. Still, it was a good excuse—both after the groceries and the headache—to see how Aziraphale was doing. To ensure that she was alright.

If it seemed opportune Crowley could ask her on a date, then he would do so. As much as it terrified him he didn’t want to go too long harbouring this secret, particularly if she rejected him. Crowley didn’t want to build his hopes and dreams too much for them to only end up crushed.

He wouldn’t rush it if it didn’t seem timely. Crowley had his car and her telephone number and, as far as he was concerned, they were still operating under the so-called arrangement Aziraphale had proposed all those weeks back. She was, theoretically, still considering a purchase with Sedah. He had plenty of excuses to see her. The right time would present itself for him to ask her. He would just have to wait.

* * *

Crowley didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary as he made his way over to her part of Tadfield. A couple of times when he had visited Aziraphale had been out or heading that way, but those were the only instances where Crowley was sent away. The idea that he would be asking her out plagued his mind but he tried to not think about it too much. His number one concern was Aziraphale’s wellbeing. That was it.

Another thing Crowley had to approach was that of her calling him by his first name. Crowley didn’t like his name particularly but after she granted him the honour he thought it would only be fair. He would rather her call him Crowley but he didn’t want her to think he was creating a distance between them. He would get used to it. If anything, he would probably like how it sounded in her voice, seeing as he liked how she said everything else.

The journey was familiar now. He found a park, walked to the door, feeling more elated with every step. He was so looking forward to seeing her.

* * *

Crowley drove away from Aziraphale's house, towards his own flat, and decided to grant himself the rest of the day off.

His bosses wouldn’t be happy with him. Crowley had to admit that he hadn’t been particularly _dedicated_ as he elucidated to Aziraphale all those weeks ago. How could he, when he was so occupied with love?

But now it seemed all of Crowley’s hopes had been snuffed out. Although it was the origin for their first meeting, Aziraphale requesting the order form felt like a rejection. It felt like this was all coming to an end. Crowley would no longer have an excuse to visit her, to call her even, unless he did something dramatic.

He could recognise that it was good while it lasted. It was going to have to end eventually. Whether it ended in a sale or Crowley being forced to move on somewhere, Crowley didn’t blame Aziraphale for not wanting to see him anymore. He hoped that the unknown voice from the kitchen didn’t have anything to do with it. Who had that man been, anyway?

Crowley couldn’t bear thinking about it. As soon as he got in the door he changed into something more casual and wandered into his plant room. He transformed into a quiet, stalking thing like a panther as he slipped between pots and inspected leaves for any signs of damage. He watered them precisely, knowing just how much was needed at the touch of soil.

He crouched down in front of the smaller pots to examine how they were doing.

“It seems you’ve finally started to listen to me, hmm? Most of you are… adequate. You won’t like it when you disappoint me,” he threatened.

Crowley moved along his collection until he reached the fern in the corner.

The leaves were brown and brittle.

“You think you can get away with that?” Crowley asked. “You think you can be anything less than perfect?” He continued, volume rising. Crowley sharply plucked off one of the offending leaves.

“Grow _better!_ Do _better!”_ He yelled at it. He was so close that the leaves quivered under his breath.

“This isn’t good enough!” Crowley picked up the pot in his hands, planning to throw it across the room. “You’re not good enough!” He screamed, voice turning hoarse. Tears pricked his eyes.

Instead of throwing it, Crowley clutched it to his chest and fell backwards to sit rather than crouch. “You’re not good enough,” he repeated. “Not at all.”

Hugging the pot, Crowley was overcome with sobs. He wasn’t good enough. Not for a woman like Aziraphale. It was clear that she was finally sick of him but was too polite to say so outright. Crowley cried harder at the idea of never seeing the angel again.

Everything started pouring out of him. Realising that he was in love was one thing but realising, _knowing_ that she would never love him back was another. He was all alone. He had always been alone, in a way. And it seemed Crowley was going to be alone for a long, long time, with nothing but plants to hold.

Eventually Crowley picked himself up off the floor. It was much later than he thought it would be—the sun was just beginning to set as he made his way to the kitchen.

Crowley winced at the light pouring through the drawn blinds and hastily shut them, plunging the room into darkness. He opened a bottle of wine to breathe and retreated to the bathroom. His face was covered in dried tears—he never cried like that, and he felt uncomfortably dehydrated and tacky. Washing it helped, though he avoided meeting his eyes in the mirror.

Back to the kitchen, Crowley took a detour to retrieve his robe from where he had thrown in onto his bed this morning. The silky soft material always made him feel better, like he was some glamorous movie starlet instead of what he was.

Crowley flicked on the radio as he set the glass down and poured a generous serving. Unfortunately the drama he had tuned into was far too chirpy for his mood, and he returned to silence.

As he sipped, Crowley drifted around his flat, robe flowing slightly behind him. So many thoughts were swirling around his head that it formed a wall of noise that was easily tuned out. He stayed standing long enough to drain the glass and absentmindedly set it down on the bench as he made his way to bed.

Crowley knew he should brush his teeth or he would regret this in the morning, but he didn’t feel like taking care of himself. He didn’t deserve it.

Crowley dumped his clothing on the floor and crawled into bed. The wine and exhaustion combined to quickly knock him unconscious. He was so tired.

* * *

Crowley awoke with a groan as he realised he desperately needed to relieve himself. So much for a pleasant sleep in.

As he returned to the bedroom it appeared that he was now, unfortunately, wide awake with the stress of the past twenty four hours, and the promise of today’s meeting. The only thing he could do now was try to prepare as best he can.

Crowley collected the newspaper and threw it on the table as he made coffee. He settled down and, instead of turning to the crossword as usual, he turned to the employment section. Avoiding thinking about it wouldn’t help him make any progress, so he might as well see what was out there.

He knew the listings were written as to make things as appealing as possible, but Crowley couldn’t resist being sucked in a little. God, he really hated his job. Well, he hated his employers so much and the environment that they created that even though he did enjoy the day to day work, it wasn’t enough.

Crowley hated himself a little, too. A lot, depending on the day. That he had ended up in this situation. That he didn’t have more in his life besides work and this… infatuation with a customer.

He set the newspaper down and drained his coffee. He needed to come up with a plan. Going in blind like this was only making everything worse.

Crowley attempted to reassure himself. The worst thing that could happen was that she would reject him. It would hurt—a lot, if Crowley were honest—but he would ultimately survive it. He would never have to go to Tadfield again and he could move on with his life.

Of course, he could wait to see if _she_ would be the one to make a move. Crowley was still convinced that Aziraphale had been flirting with him that day—even if it wasn’t conscious. He knew that was the coward’s way out, though. So was running away completely—disappearing from Aziraphale's life with no warning and pretending none of this had ever happened. It was appealing, to avoid the whole thing. The potential for heartbreak.

But still, Crowley worried. Was it creepy, when he had most of the power in the situation? Was it too soon? Had he opened up enough for her to even feel something towards him? Was it even likely that she could love him back?

All of these thoughts ran through Crowley’s mind as he got ready for the day.

He quickly resigned himself to the fact that if he wasn’t let go, he should quit soon before his job became even more unbearable. Crowley looked around his sparse flat, mentally reviewing what he could get rid of if—when—he moved. It’s not as if he owned a great deal, but it was calming, in a strange way, to move about the space and organise his possessions here and there.

Crowley still didn’t know what he wanted the next stage of his life to look like. He knew he never wanted to work for someone like Mr Lagorio again, though. He wanted to let go somewhat of this cool exterior he had built up. Frankly, he wanted a less dingy flat. That certainly wasn’t contributing to his mood. Crowley had never really settled in, despite all the years of occupation. It never really felt like home. Besides the plants, he had nothing to share it with. He went to work, and spent most of his time off sleeping. Didn’t need much more than a bed for that. How depressing his thoughts were.

To try and buoy himself, Crowley took to mentally composing his resignation. Oh, he could not wait to see Mr Lagorio’s face when he handed it in. He knew he was one of the better salesmen they employed—Crowley had certainly been there the longest—and then scrambling to fill Sedah’s precious _quotas_ without him made him laugh.

Crowley could only put off getting ready so much and he eventually returned to the bedroom to get dressed. His suit was basically one of armour at this point. He wanted—no, needed—to look perfect. He had to control every variable possible to ensure that things would go well. As well as they could be, anyway.

He combed his hair back in the mirror and examined his reflection. Thank goodness his stubble was slow growing—he didn’t want to risk cutting himself. Crowley stood up and attempted to arrange himself in a way that seemed more confident than he felt. Practice made perfect, didn’t it?

“Aziraphale,” he said aloud, then cleared his throat. “Aziraphale,” Crowley continued more firmly. “I have something I want—no, need—to tell you, and I would appreciate you listening until I finished.”

God, he sounded way too stiff.

“Aziraphale, I have something I need to tell you and well, I’m not sure how you’ll take it.” That sounded far too grave.

Crowley shook his hands and feet out as he attempted to loosen up. Why was spinning lies so much easier than telling the truth to someone he cared about?

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to centre himself and speak from his heart.

“Aziraphale. I didn’t expect this to happen when we met, though I have to say I am more than pleasantly surprised.” Crowley paused. Could he really do this?

“I love you. I think-” Crowley cut himself off. “No hedging, come on,” he muttered then continued at his regular volume. “I’m in love with you. I know this may be a shock, and of course you have absolutely no obligation to return to return my, ah, affections. I just thought you should know.”

Crowley hit his forehead with a hand. “I just thought you should know? I sound ridiculous.”

“Though I do hope you might feel the same. Or may grow to feel the same. May I take you on a date?”

That was… not bad, actually. Crowley gave himself a soft “wahoo!” as he left the bathroom. It wouldn’t do to lose his nerve now.

He grabbed his case from the front door and propped it on the coffee table. He double-checked that he had everything—the catalogue, the order form, working pens. Crowley hoped that he could get the declaration in before they proceeded to the sales. It was embarrassing enough to talk so openly about his _feelings,_ let alone admit how dodgy the products were.

The reminder of the potential rejection made Crowley deflate a little, but he tried to steel himself. At the very least, he needed his wits about him to try and memorise as much of Aziraphale as he could. Especially if it was the last time.

All too soon Crowley was speeding in the Bentley on his way to Tadfield. The trip passed in a blue, he was so familiar with the route by now. A couple of turns, and he was parked once more in the driveway of Aziraphale's house.

Crowley turned off the ignition and gripped the steering wheel tight. Could he do this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley returns to his flat after driving Aziraphale home from the Grocery Incident. He's excited to be in love, but also concerned about his lack of experience with romance. He plans to ask her out on a date and considers his options for what they could do, and settles on asking her to dinner. His thoughts lead him to masturbating in the shower. The next day Crowley calls Aziraphale to see if she is alright, but she sounds off and admits she has a headache. A day later Crowley visits her unannounced to see how she is doing. He thinks about asking her to use his first name but worries because he prefers being called Crowley and that might create distance between them. The events of Chapter 5 occur off-screen. Crowley is obviously upset and breaks down about not feeling good enough for her while disciplining his plants. The next day Crowley considers quitting his job and rehearses confessing his love to Aziraphale. If she rejects him, he feels there is no longer a point staying in a job he hates, particularly as he is currently concerned about romancing her and his role as a 'man'. The chapter ends with Crowley pulling up to Aziraphale’s home.


	7. A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions and comings out.
> 
> (The major angst is now over!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said mid next week, but here we are anyway
> 
> cw fear of transphobia/transmisogyny, recollection of homophobic slurs and bullying, recollection of dysphoria, general insecurity, brief misnaming (Crowley asks Aziraphale to use the name he doesn't actually like but that is quickly resolved), unfounded fear of assault
> 
> Spoilers for that last warning in case you're worried: Pebjyrl chfurf uvf punve bhg nsgre Nmvencunyr gryyf uvz gung fur'f genaf naq gung fur ybirf uvz, gur npgvba bs juvpu pnhfrf ure gb cerrzcg n culfvpny nggnpx. Guvf qbrf abg unccra, Pebjyrl jnf fvzcyl bire-rntre va jnagvat gb trg hc naq uht ure. Decode via <https://rot13.com/> (copy + paste the above text)
> 
> If you have any concerns about the content in this chapter feel free to leave a comment or message me on tumblr. I like to be thorough with my warnings but imo this chapter is lighter than the past two, but of course I only have my own experience to go on and I want y'all to be safe

Aziraphale woke up early as she usually did although she felt far less rested than normal. Today was the last day she would see Mr Crowley and she couldn’t say it brought her any joy.

She knew she was being sensible. Reasonable. Putting a stop to all of this emotional guesswork. Cutting off the potential for broken hearts and all the hurt that would follow. It just didn’t mean she had to _like_ it.

Aziraphale got dressed and attempted to cheer herself up by putting on one of her favourite outfits—a lovely skirt and blouse. She also donned a cardigan which brought her some comfort. Originally it had been Georgie’s but, well. He hadn’t owned it for long.

Her hair was a right mess, however. It seemed her restless sleep did nothing for her curls. Aziraphale tried to get them under control as best she could but it appeared as if they were mostly a lost cause. She sighed and focused on applying her lipstick instead. That was something that made her feel better, at least. The pretty pink set off her light blush.

Aziraphale headed to the kitchen and donned her apron. She was quite annoyed with herself that she hadn’t specified a time for Mr Crowley to return. She knew the usual window in which he visited her, of course, but it meant in theory she could be waiting about all day.

Thus it was time to keep her hands busy and set her mind at ease through the power of baking. She started on a loaf of bread first, as it would take far longer to prove than the scones. As Aziraphale kneaded the dough her thoughts settled somewhat with the repetitive, soothing action.

Aziraphale set it aside to rise and considered her own breakfast. Nothing in particular held much appeal, which was a rarity for her and betrayed her emotional turmoil. She managed to toast the heel of the old loaf and a cup of black tea before she started to feel queasy again. Aziraphale placed the dishes to be washed later and began on the scones.

Once they were in the oven, Aziraphale poked the bread dough. It wasn’t _quite_ done, so all she could do was wait.

Aziraphale retreated down the hall to check her appearance, glad that she hadn’t accidentally wiped flour across her face this time. She then flitted to the front window to watch the street. Aziraphale stood there for a good five minutes before she made herself sit down.

At the kitchen table, Aziraphale jiggled her foot with nerves. Oh, this was _awful._ She managed to remain there until the scones were ready to come out. She set them down quickly and rushed back to the door—she could have sworn she heard the Bentley turn into the street.

But of course, no one was there.

Aziraphale forced herself to tidy up, although the house had pretty much remained spick and span since yesterday. As the clock ticked on it became easier to relax. Mr Crowley's arrival didn’t feel as imminent and her mind could drift elsewhere. But only a few moments after Aziraphale deposited the bread in the oven, a knock came at the door.

It felt as if her heart stopped. Her stomach threatened to fall out her throat and she was frozen in place. The knock came again and she was spurred into action. As Aziraphale flew to answer it, she whipped off her apron and prayed that her makeup was in order. She pinched her arm to wake herself up. Everything felt slightly hazy all of a sudden.

Aziraphale tried to stop her hands from shaking as she opened the door.

On the other side stood Mr Crowley. Of course it was him, it wasn’t as if Aziraphale was expecting anyone else. It felt different, however, to their usual visits. It felt so much more grave.

They examined one another for a moment. He looked so handsome—somehow more so than yesterday. Perhaps Aziraphale truly was losing it. She shouldn’t be thinking about how attractive Mr Crowley was _now._

“Hello,” she said, hands clasped behind her to stop them from twisting over and over one another as she did when she was nervous.

“Hello,” Mr Crowley replied, just as solemnly.

“Won’t you come in?”

Aziraphale moved away from occupying the entirety of the doorway to let Mr Crowley pass her.

He nodded and brushed past, and Aziraphale did her best not to revel in the scent of his cologne.

As he had all the times before, Mr Crowley carefully hung his coat and hat on the relevant hooks. Why did that image make Aziraphale want to cry? She truly needed to get a hold of herself.

Aziraphale led them to the kitchen table, noticing that Mr Crowley was unusually quiet. Perhaps this was what happened when the sale was guaranteed? Aziraphale tried not to think about it as she fussed with the kettle and checked on the baking bread.

Behind her, Mr Crowley was carefully removing various items from the familiar leather case and placing them on the table.

Soon the pot was ready and Aziraphale arranged the various dishes among the different objects, though neither made a move to make a cup. It felt… cold, really. But it was professional, Aziraphale reminded herself. This is what their relationship should have been all along.

Still, she couldn’t help but wish for the familiarity of yore. This business where they hardly spoke to one another was so strangely different to their usual easy interactions.

Mr Crowley looked up at her from where he had been testing out a pen. “Here,” he passed over the catalogue.

Aziraphale took it in her hands, reluctantly opening it and reading.

He began asking her a series of questions as he returned to the order form. “The silver finish did you say?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said as she stared at the top of Mr Crowley’s bent head. He ticked some boxes and continued.

This really must have only been about the sale, Aziraphale scolded herself. It was clear in his behaviour which was no longer charming or warm. What a fool she had been.

She rose out of her seat to find her checkbook—in the stress of the morning she had forgotten to lay it at the ready. Aziraphale returned to Mr Crowley tearing out the order form and its copy from its pad. She picked up one of the pens closest to her and began filling it out. She felt Mr Crowley’s eyes on her but assumed it was him making sure she wrote down the correct amount.

Then a hand was on hers and the pen jolted, leaving an errant mark on the thin paper.

“I can’t let you do that.”

Aziraphale looked up and stared at Mr Crowley as if he had grown a second head. She frowned at the sudden change of heart. “Of course you can. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” She asked, bristling at the remark.

Mr Crowley removed his hand from hers to fling himself backwards in his chair. “What _I_ wanted?” He scoffed and ran a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect combing.

“Aziraphale, _angel,_ ” he corrected himself and Aziraphale flinched at the affection. What _was_ he doing?

“Angel,” he said again and Aziraphale grew even more concerned. His amber eyes met hers as he looked at her with an expression she had never seen.

“I didn’t really expect this to happen. I didn’t _know_ this could happen. We met by chance—for me, it was another sales call. But I didn’t know that it would change my life.”

Aziraphale felt pinned in place as Mr Crowley continued his speech. Her mind was reduced to nothing but tumultuous silence.

“I called you angel that first meeting because it’s true. Not only are you beautiful, so beautiful it can’t be possible that you’re from earth, but you’re kind. You were kind to me, even after I offended you!” He threw up his hands to punctuate the sentence. “You could have sent me off in the pouring rain but instead you gave me your umbrella.”

Mr Crowley rubbed at his face and Aziraphale continued to stare. “I was a goner from there. No one has ever made me feel like you do, Aziraphale. No one has made me laugh, or smile, or as happy as you have. And I’ve realised that I…” he trailed off and audibly swallowed.

Aziraphale couldn’t believe what she was hearing. That faint hope that she had tried to quash again and again was growing, blooming inside her. But Mr Crowley still looked distressed, so she remained worried, despite the happy feelings.

“I love you, Aziraphale Ingels. With everything in me.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but gasp. He _loved_ her? She couldn’t have heard that right, it simply wasn’t possible, this could not being happening after everything she’d been through—

Mr Crowley’s shoulders grew hunched and he looked to his lap. “I don’t expect you to return my affections. I know it must come as a shock and I certainly don’t expect you to feel _obligated_ , especially as this happened under the guise of a business relationship, but, well…”

He trailed off and looked away, wrapping his arms around himself. “Just thought you should know, really.”

Aziraphale started to cry. It felt like a trick, almost. A cruel trick by the universe. To offer everything she ever wanted whilst knowing how impossible it was. It was like a bad dream that she knew she wouldn’t wake up from.

Mr Crowley nodded and he appeared almost resigned through her blur of tears. “I’m sorry. That’s all I really wanted to say. I don’t think,” he bit down on his lip. “I couldn’t let you go through with the purchase without telling you. I… I’ll take my leave.”

He stood and made to gather his possessions, bringing him closer to Aziraphale. She reached out and clutched his arm, needing to stop him somehow but not finding the words. He instantly stopped, holding his breath and looking at her with wide eyes.

Aziraphale didn’t want to do it, but she knew she must.

She poured the now lukewarm tea into her cup with one hand and took a sip. Her throat felt tight and dry so it helped, somewhat, in allowing her to speak.

“Please,” she said softly. “I also have something to say. Sit?” Aziraphale requested and Mr Crowley fell down with an audible thunk.

Only then did she let go of his arm, her hand skimming his as she retreated. Aziraphale wrung her own hands together as she gathered her thoughts. How was she to say this?

Mr Crowley continued to watch her. She couldn’t tell what he was feeling—that had been made obvious. It was overwhelming, too, to be under his stare, so she got up and started pacing along the wall of the kitchen. It helped somewhat to get the nervous energy out. She knew how ridiculous she must have appeared to him but she couldn’t think about that now. Delaying it would only make it worse so Aziraphale pressed herself into the corner of the cabinets and attempted to speak.

“Please just hear me out, Mr Crowley. I believe you owe me that much. If I upset you or… well. Please know that I do not expect you to understand, and you can leave and never return.”

His frown deepened. “Aziraphale, I—”

“Please, Mr Crowley? Would you do me this much?”

He gave a small nod. “But I think you could call me by my name, now. It’s Anthony, in case you’ve forgotten.” He cleared his throat self-consciously.

“Anthony, then,” Aziraphale attempted to steel herself, thinking of how confident Georgie used to make her feel, how loved she was by him.

“I, too, never expected this when you knocked on my front door all those weeks ago. I thought you were just another con-man, frankly, but I was so lonely. I am so lonely,” she corrected, “and my dear, you were so handsome that I didn’t care.”

Mr Crowley— Anthony’s eyebrows shot up towards his headline. And here Aziraphale thought it was so _obvious_.

“When I forget myself, I imagine…” Aziraphale shook her head. No, she couldn’t get his hopes up further before she told him.

“There’s something I must tell you first, Anthony, and I doubt very much that you’ll take it well, but. I cannot deceive you any longer.” She hadn’t had to do this in so long and fear consumed her, but she persevered.

“It’s about me and it’s very well possible that it might change your feelings, which I completely understand, but…” Aziraphale squeezed her hands tight together. She couldn’t keep putting it off.

She sighed and started again. “When I was younger, when I was born and all through my youth, until I moved away from my family that is, they believed I was… a boy.”

Oh god, she had said it.

Aziraphale watched carefully to see how Anthony would react. The disgust or anger she had expected hadn’t yet arrived. Perhaps it wouldn’t be an absolute disaster after all? She tried to be brave while that hope still lived inside her.

“I’m, well, I’m not sure if you’ve heard of anyone like me or if it’s a complete shock but please just let me explain. Due to the body I was born in, the doctors and my family and the world made some… assumptions, about who I was and who I was going to be. But they were wrong, you see. Very wrong.”

She couldn’t keep looking at him. She knew she shouldn’t take her eyes away just in case, but she looked out the window anyway.

“I always knew I was different. My siblings and family and schoolmates loved to remind me of the fact. I was a great deal softer than the other boys, you might say. I always wanted to stay with my books and I didn’t care a great deal for roughhousing. I didn’t exactly have the words then and I still don’t really now because it’s not a talked about thing, is it? Queerness, and the like.”

If Aziraphale had been looking at Anthony, she would have noticed that he flinched.

“So I knew I was different and for a while I thought I might just be all the labels others seemed keen on putting on me. Pansy, a sissy. Worse ones, that I shan’t repeat now. I always looked at boys far too much so I thought they might be true, even if it seemed it was condemning me to a life of suffering. But as we approached secondary school and my body started changing as did all of my peers, I realised that something was very wrong.”

Aziraphale felt her bottom lip quivered and she paused for a moment. The story only got harder in the middle, not easier. Like Anthony had done so minutes ago, she wrapped her arms around herself at an attempt for comfort.

“I know I don’t need to tell you the exact details of my story but, well. Let’s say that being a boy that was called girl only ever in an uncomplimentary way was one thing, but looking in the mirror and seeing myself become a _man…_ ” Tears streamed further down her face and she hastily wiped at them.

Aziraphale shook her head as she rid herself of those thoughts. “It was a very, very dark time in my life. But all those years of being an outcast, retreating into my books, befriending the librarians paid off, in a way. I was able to acquire some material that explained who I was, somewhat. It was a relief, to know I wasn’t alone, at least in theory.”

Aziraphale sighed. “In reality, I had to carry around this secret like a chain around the ankle.”

“I knew I was a girl, Anthony, you must believe me. I knew then and I know now. Fortunately Georgie came into my life and after some months of becoming friends he told me that he was queer, and that he loved me. God, he was terrified,” she recalled.

Thinking of Georgie soothed her anxieties a little. “Much like I am now. I was then, too, and I told him what I knew of myself. It wasn’t what either of us planned but it worked, I have to say. We ran away to his apartment and I became a bit of a hermit as I changed my appearance, going through some processes in order for us to get married. We built a life together and I was able to become the woman I was meant to be all along. The woman you know today.”

Getting it off her chest made Aziraphale feel better. The relief was palpable. It didn’t bring her much _joy,_ but it felt like less of a weight on her back. Now that the heavy secret was unburdened. She wiped at her face again and dared to return to looking at Anthony.

He was sitting in the chair, still. He leaned forward, one hand over his mouth. His eyes were wet, too.

Aziraphale was shocked at how… pleasant his appearance still was. Frankly, she was shocked that he was still sat in her kitchen. Perhaps her estimations of him were right all along.

“So this is me,” she said and smoothed down her skirts. “I know it’s a shock, I know you must feel like I’ve kept some great secret from you. But I needed to tell you before I told you, well, something else.” Aziraphale walked a few steps forward toward him. “I love you, too.”

Anthony’s chair scraped back with a loud noise and Aziraphale flinched, instinctively stumbling backward away from him and bracing for impact. Nothing came and after a moment she reopened her eyes.

Anthony then walked up to her, slowly, carefully as if she were a spooked lamb. He opened his arms wide, but didn’t close them around her. It seemed as if he were giving her a choice as to whether she would walk forward or not.

It was only a few short steps for her to press against him.

Aziraphale settled against Anthony’s chest, her cheek pressed against his suit jacket. After a moment she could feel how quickly his heart was beating. It was endearing, really, the contrast between how Anthony paraded himself and how he really was. His arms slowly fell to hold her loosely, carefully. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t believe the reality of the situation.

Aziraphale hoped this would go well. Still in the back of her mind were a swirl of doubts and worries. She didn’t know what Anthony was thinking. Whether it was some kind of joke or fetish or what have you. Whether he was so in shock that his true reaction had yet to manifest. She chastised herself for thinking so ill of the man, but anything was possible. It was clear in the fact that she and Anthony were embracing, a dream Aziraphale had convinced herself wouldn’t ever come true.

Aziraphale tried to memorise his touch, his scent, lest it be the last time. He was surprisingly cool but that didn’t matter. She had the tendency to run warm, anyhow. His head bumped against the top of hers as he shifted minutely closer.

It was a long while before they separated.

Anthony was the one to step back. His eyes were still damp and his hair askew. Aziraphale thought he looked rather perfect. He opened his mouth as if to speak then closed it and retrieved his chair, setting it closer to hers.

She slowly joined him on the same side of the table, their knees almost touching. Her hand came to rest on the surface and Anthony’s carefully reached out again. It was so considerate, so very him, and Aziraphale almost felt herself falling in love all over again.

“Wow,” he said finally. Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled. ‘Wow’ was not exactly what she had expected.

“Aziraphale, I. That was, a lot, I’m sure you can agree but I have to say thank you, for trusting me.” His hand briefly squeezed hers. “You’re right, I didn’t expect that, exactly, but I’m not upset, although I may look it,” he said and they both chuckled.

Anthony pulled out his handkerchief and wiped at his face.

“I really am honoured that you told me, it can’t have been easy. And, well, to add to the day’s excitement, I understand. Not exactly, I couldn’t ever know your direct experience, but,” he looked down at his lap and picked at some loose thread on his knee.

Aziraphale turned her hand up to hold his properly.

“I’m… queer. I wasn’t going to tell you, it didn’t seem appropriate given the circumstances… but I’ve looked at women and men in equal measure over the years. But more than that I’ve never been particularly good at being a man.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to be shocked.

“I know, I know. It’s confusing, right? But besides feeling queer—there’s more to that, but I don’t think this is the time—all the stuff I was meant to like or do or say because of… _manliness_ never sat well with me.” He worried at his lip before he continued.

“I was considered soft, too, or just plain strange when I was growing up. Never fit in with anybody. But most of the time when I was looking at women was when I wanted to look like them. At least in some ways. Never felt like I belonged in either camp. Sounds strange, right?”

“Not any stranger than anything I told you,” she told him.

“Yeah, I s’pose,” he muttered. “I just. If we’re doing this whole… romance thing, and we’re being so _honest_ about it, I didn’t want to… lie to you. I don’t know if there’s words for what I am but I don’t know if you even want that. More queerness. Me.”

Aziraphale squeezed Anthony’s hand more tightly. “Dearest, please look at me.” It was a few moments before he reluctantly did so. “I don’t think I know how to do anything but love you, no matter how you feel.”

Tears spilled over his cheeks and Aziraphale recognised how fearful he appeared. Oh, this wouldn’t do at all. She shifted her chair a little closer and placed an arm around him. It seemed neither of them were alone, now.

They sat there in relative silence until he had cried himself out a little. Aziraphale stroked his hair back from his forehead and he leaned into the touch, eyes closing as he calmed down. Oh, her love was beautiful.

“Should I call you something else, my dear? Do you like your name?”

Anthony pressed closer and if it hadn’t been far too fast for either of them she would have pulled him into her lap.

“I’ve always preferred just Crowley. Felt like me, most of the time. I don’t,” he got choked up for a moment. “It’s not as if I’ve had anywhere to request something different.”

Aziraphale leaned in carefully and brushed a kiss on his head. “Of course. Crowley suits you wonderfully. Do let me know if that changes.”

He nodded, seemingly still shocked from the whirlwind of information they had exchanged.

His expression turned thoughtful after that. Aziraphale gave him the chance to think about whatever it was he was considering. In truth, she had expected to be hit by a barrage of questions, and was quite surprised when they hadn’t come.

“So your husband knew, then? Did you love him?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I loved him very much. I’m not sure if I was quite in love with him, knowing he could never reciprocate, me being a woman and all. But I loved—love—him a great deal, and we had a wonderful life.” Aziraphale squeezed their joined hands. “He loved me in his own way.”

“I’m glad you had that. I’m glad you weren’t alone,” he softly replied.

Wasn’t Crowley just so incredibly tender-hearted? “Thank you, my love.”

“Ngk.”

Aziraphale blinked. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“‘Twas nothing.”

“Crowley,” she said more firmly. “That… noise. What was it?”

He sighed and looked away from her. “No one’s ever called me… _that_ before.”

“What, my love?” Crowley bit down on his lip. “My darling? My sweetheart?”

“Ngk!”

Aziraphale leaned in. “I think it’s delightful,” she murmured and kissed his cheek. Crowley’s face became almost as red as his hair.

Crowley turned and buried his face in her shoulder in response.

It seemed both were quite exhausted from the strain of their discussion. The pair sat there in comfortable silence for some time, until Aziraphale had to rise and remove the bread out of the oven. That snapped her somewhat out of her daze and she poured them both glasses of water before she set about making a fresh pot of tea.

Crowley drank up eagerly when she prompted him. How sweet.

Both were still very surprised at how close they were allowed to be, now. It was like they were much younger than they actually were—tentative, shy. Of course, they proved that experience doesn’t come necessarily with age, but it was the sort of thing people tended to agree on. Innocence of youth and all of that.

As she set down the tea things for the second time that day Aziraphale dragged her chair to sit right against Crowley’s, as if it were a bench. Momentarily she worried about being too big, too much—her skirts nor hips weren’t exactly _small—_ but she chased those stupid thoughts away. Crowley clearly liked _her_ for who she was, and she would do her damn best to accept it.

The tea soothed her throat and frankly made her feel a lot better. Aziraphale could hardly believe the time when she saw it. She gratefully chewed on one of the scones, thankful for her past self for baking so many. She nudged Crowley to eat, too, and he slowly nibbled on one. He must not have much of an appetite, the poor thing.

After many minutes, it seemed that one of them was meant to break the silence. Apparently they had the same thought, since they began to speak at the same time.

“I—”

“Aziraphale—”

They looked at each other, and laughed.

“You go first, angel.”

Aziraphale wiggled with delight. She was _never_ going to get over him calling her that. “I was going to say that I find myself quite exhausted, my dear. Quite a stressful morning. And I wanted to know what your plans were, if you needed to be somewhere else…” She trailed off, uncertain.

Crowley put down the scone he had been holding and grabbed her hand with his clean one. “You have no idea how stressed I was. But I’ll admit it, I’m quite—” he was interrupted by a yawn, “— tired, too. If you don’t think I’m being too rude, I might take my leave and return home for a nap?”

Aziraphale beamed. “That sounds wonderful. I didn’t want to seem like I was kicking you out after I told you I loved you, but I think I could use some time to gather my thoughts. This is… not how I expected this to go,” she finished more thoughtfully.

Crowley lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. “I think I understand what you mean.”

He drained the remainder of his tea and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’ll call you, then, later? When we have both of our heads on more firmly?”

Aziraphale nodded as Crowley gathered his things. They both stood up and began to walk to the door. “That would be lovely. It’s only…”

Crowley paused where he was shrugging on his coat. “Yes?”

“Could we set a specific time? I was in quite the tizzy waiting for you this morning, never knowing when you could appear.”

A soft expression crossed Crowley’s face. He stepped forward into her space and kissed her cheek again. Aziraphale was all aflutter at the affection.

“Of course, angel. I’m sorry for worrying you so much,” Crowley put on his hat. “Would six be alright?”

“Perfect,” Aziraphale said breathlessly. “It’s a date.”

Crowley smiled to himself as he stepped out the door.

“Dearest?”

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale wrung her hands together. “Would you, um, hug me again, please? Before you go?”

A wide grin bloomed on Crowley’s face, now, as he set down the case and quickly stepped forward. “Of course, angel,” he murmured as he wrapped her in the warm embrace. It felt like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did actually do some research for this fic (an achievement) so I thought I would share it. If this were a modern AU I probably wouldn't reference Aziraphale's transition so explicitly cause google, y'know, exists and reducing trans bodies to their genitalia sucks .... but the history of medical transition isn't something I'm even particularly well-versed in, despite being a living breathing trans person as well as a gender studies major. Aziraphale's transition is loosely based on information from the following (warnings for outdated/historical terminology): 
> 
> [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roberta_Cowell#Transition_and_surgery](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roberta_Cowell#Transition_and_surgery/)   
>  <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transgender_hormone_therapy_(male-to-female)#History>   
>  <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sex_reassignment_surgery#History>
> 
> Hope it gives you a jumping off point if this is something you want to learn more about cause lord knows I won't be taking questions about it
> 
> <3


	8. C

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Distance makes the heart grow fonder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw normative gender roles, gender dysphoria, shitty bosses

Crowley walked to his car with a giant grin on his face. He practically floated, buoyed by the scent and warmth of Aziraphale that still lingered around him. He felt so giddy with it that he almost forgot to put the Bentley in reverse as he pulled out of the driveway.

Before he made the turn onto the street he looked out the window to see Aziraphale still standing at the door, watching him. That made his grin big enough that it hurt his cheeks a little, so out of use they were.

Crowley didn’t even mind that the radio station had somehow switched from his usual rock and roll to something he usually would describe as romantic dribble. To be frank, Crowley hardly noticed the change at all.

Soon Crowley arrived at his flat although he hardly remembered the journey over. It could have taken an hour or five minutes, he had no idea. After he turned off the ignition and exited the car he did a small dance of victory on the pavement. Aziraphale loved him back! They were in love with one another!

Crowley straightened up and sincerely hoped no one witnessed how much of a dork he was as he walked upstairs. He needed a nap, but he didn’t know if he would be able to sleep with all this excitement.

* * *

Crowley was extremely thankful to his past self who set an alarm for four o’clock before he crashed into sleep, even if he awoke with a groan.

He tossed over in his sheets for a moment, annoyed that his wonderful dream had been disrupted. He had been hugging the most beautiful angel, an angel that said she loved him back…

Crowley sat up and closed his eyes at the disorientation. After a moment his head settled and he remembered. _Aziraphale_.

It hadn’t been a dream at all. It was real life and he had two hours until he got to speak to her again.

Crowley’s stomach made itself known—he really hadn’t eaten much that day besides one of the lovely scones Aziraphale had made. He got out of bed, threw his robe on top of his pants and prayed he had some food in the kitchen.

Thankfully Crowley was able to scrounge up enough to make a half-decent toasted sandwich. While he waited for the pan to heat up he drained a glass of water and began to reflect on all that had happened. The past twenty four hours had been a whirlwind to say the least.

Crowley had gone from believing he would never see Aziraphale again, prepared to quit his job and move and leave this life behind, to confessing his love to her. Then she told him her story and what’s more, said she loved him _back._ It was amazing.

In a few minutes the sandwich was done and Crowley burnt the tips of his fingers and tongue in his haste to eat it. He was starving, really. He supposed this is what emotions did to a person.

He made quick work of the sandwich and headed to the bathroom. He needed a shower and then he thought he would feel absolutely perfect.

* * *

The hours passed and it was time for their telephone call. Crowley wouldn’t admit it, but he was nervous. What if distance didn’t make the heart grow fonder and Aziraphale realised that had made a mistake? He tried to tell himself that he was being silly, but the worry persisted. In any case, he wouldn’t find out if he _didn’t_ talk to her.

He sighed and dialled the number, hoping for the best but expecting the worst. Almost immediately she picked up.

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphalesaid warmly at the other end of the line.

Crowley spluttered. “Wha— Aziraphale! It could have been anyone and you answered like _that!_ ”

She giggled and Crowley all but melted, worries gone.

“I’m not sure what I’ve led you to believe, Crowley, but you’re truly the only person who rings me with great regularity. I was willing to take my chances.”

“You’re the only person I call,” he softly admitted. He didn’t know why he replied with that, but it was out there now.

“You’re lovely.”

Crowley blushed and closed his eyes. The familiar feeling of being both glad and annoyed that Aziraphale wasn’t in the room made itself known.

“Takes one to know one, angel,” Crowley grumbled in response. Why did she make all his attempts at suaveness fly out the window?

“Very true, darling. Did you get home alright?”

“Yep. No trouble at all and went back to bed.”

“I admit, I had a little lie down myself. What a day! Please tell me you’ve eaten something besides my scones this morning? I really should have sent you home with some.”

“S’okay, angel. Had a sandwich.”

“Oh good. I couldn’t live with myself if I just let you starve like that.”

Crowley snorted. “I can take care of myself, you know. I feel like there’s going to be a lot of fussing in my future, hmm?”

A pause at the end of the line. “I’m sorry, my dear. Of course you can. I know I can be a little _much—_ ”

Crowley frowned and sat up. “Hey, hey, angel, no. I like it. It’s cute. Besides, I haven't really had a lot of, um, people care about me before, like, ever, so.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Of course I’m sure. Where’s this coming from, Aziraphale? Has someone told you off about it before?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Some people haven’t appreciated my fussing, yes. It wasn’t seen as proper. I’d rather not think about them, now, if that's alright with you.”

“Of course. Well, your scones were delicious at any rate, and I look forward to having more in future," Crowley offered as a change of topic. 

“You do?”

“Definitely, angel. But you’re what I look forward to the most.”

She giggled, although it was softer than the previous time. “You old charmer, you.”

Crowley smiled as she began to sound more like herself.

“I try, at the very least. Now, how about you let me take you out properly this week, hmm? Saturday night?”

“That would be wonderful, my dear. Six o’clock again?”

“Perfect.” The mention of time made Crowley check his own watch and he bit back a groan.

“Unfortunately I had better go—it seems I need to buy a few groceries or else I’ll have no dinner.”

“Of course, I shan’t keep you.”

“Talk to you soon, angel. I love you.”

“I love you, darling. I hope you dream of whatever you like best, tonight.”

She hung up.

I guarantee it, angel, Crowley said to himself. There’s only one thing he'd be dreaming about.

* * *

Crowley woke up in heaven. Aziraphale must really be an angel (or perhaps he was just a lovesick fool susceptible to the power of suggestion) because his dreams had been incredibly delightful. So delightful, in fact, that Crowley was almost looking forward to going in to work that day. He would have been, except for one thing.

Aziraphale's order.

See, Crowley hadn’t thought much further ahead than putting off Mr Lagorio and his even bigger nuisance of a boss, Mr Hasten. He made up some half-truths about her being widowed and having a lot of money in order to keep seeing Aziraphale for as long as he could.

But things had gone off of Crowley’s plan and he had no order from her.

Obviously Crowley didn’t _want_ Aziraphaleto waste her money on the shoddy product. But he couldn’t face his boss empty-handed, with how much time he had spent with her and how much he had bragged.

There was only one real thing Crowley could do, which was continue to lie.

Crowley grumbled through his morning routine of coffee and newspaper, trying to put the inevitable out of his mind. Yesterday he was ready to quit and start a whole new life far, far away from his inevitable broken heart and Tadfield. But now he and Aziraphale were… together.

(Was she his girlfriend? That was a whole other conversation for future-Crowley to deal with.)

It wouldn’t do to just quit his steady job with nothing else lined up. Especially as Crowley was determined to treat Aziraphale _right._

So Crowley got through his crossword and second cup, then got out his wallet and penny bank. He could reasonably argue something about her not having access to a bank account or checkbook and that cash in hand was what she preferred. He doubted Mr Lagorio would care _how_ he got the money, as long as the money was got. Crowley checked over the order form to ensure Aziraphale wouldn’t be too caught up in all of this.

Then he headed to the office, feeling somewhat defeated but comforted with the knowledge that he would see Aziraphale soon enough.

* * *

Crowley was made to wait for Mr Lagorio to finish an all important telephone call. Everything that Mr Lagorio did was very important. Supposedly. Crowley was well used to these games by now and only had to suppress a mild eye roll as he was summoned inside in an overly dramatic fashion.

Crowley had barely closed the door before the demands started.

“You better have good news for me, Anthony, with the shit you’ve been pulling lately. If you haven’t made the sale you might as well get out of here.”

He gingerly sat down in the empty seat in front of the large wooden desk. “I have, sir. Here.”

He smoothed out the order form and arranged the pounds on the surface.

Mr Lagorio obviously wasn’t expecting that, but hid his reaction well.

“Good. Glad your… dedication,” he said with a sneer, “paid off. Get that out of my sight. You know where to submit it.”

“Of course, sir,” Crowley said dully and replaced the items back in his jacket.

“Now what to do with our precious little salesman?”

Mr Lagorio said as he kicked his feet up on the desk. Crowley all but jumped at the loud sounds they made. Why did being called a man in that voice make him feel so awful?

“Do you remember my promise, Anthony?”

“Promise, sir?”

“Perhaps you saw it as a threat. In any case, I clearly must remind you. You’re to be sent on, effective immediately. To Heathcote.”

Crowley blinked. “But sir—”

“None of that.” Mr Lagorio swung his legs back down and loomed over the desk. “You had the deadline, you were late, this was the deal.”

Crowley felt his glimmer of happiness stomped out. Heathcote was far away from Tadfield, and even if the commute _was_ possible it wouldn’t be wise with how much Mr Lagorio was clearly planning to work him.

“Right,” Crowley replied dully. Mr Lagorio raised an eyebrow at him. “Sir.”

“Better. I expect your sales to double—we don’t pay you to sit around, you know.”

Crowley just stared at him. The promise of Saturday’s date was impossible now.

“Chop chop, get out of my sight and get packing!”

Crowley jumped up and strode out of the office without a goodbye. Shit, shit, _shit,_ he thought to himself. He had known this was a possibility—more like an inevitability, really. Crowley hadn’t stayed in an area like Tadfield for this long before. But that didn’t mean he had been planning for Mr Lagorio to actually go through with it so soon. Crowley barely managed to shove the order form and cash in an envelope and drop it in the out tray before he was hightailing it out of there.

He had done this before. Going on the road was nothing new—it was literally part of the job. But for some reason his time with Aziraphale had made him forget about everything regular in his life. The time before her seemed hazy and ancient. The future had been open wide but now there was a giant roadblock in the way.

Crowley managed to return to his flat in record time—thank someone for midday traffic. He immediately started to pack. As much as he wanted to spiral into thinking about Aziraphale, about how she would react to him cancelling their date, about them being separated for a month, Crowley knew he would regret far more if he forgot to bring something in his distraction.

He had done this so many times over the years, now, that it was almost like a reflex. Even if he barely recognised his life without Aziraphale it was easy to gather his clothes and toiletries and shove them haphazardly in a suitcase.

Crowley then went to water the plants. They knew better than to wilt when he was away. Very occasionally, and only when he was away for too long a time, Crowley would get his neighbour to come water them. He didn’t like that, though. Both the idea of someone potentially coddling them, nor the notion of an almost-stranger in his space. Most of the time they survived wonderfully. Miraculously, even.

Crowley wandered from room to room, checking that things were put away and that he hadn’t forgotten anything. In the kitchen he cleared out the fridge by constructing a hodge-podge meal that he quickly scoffed down. He wanted to get to a hotel in Heathcote and have enough time to get a proper night’s sleep before he started pounding the pavement once more.

It was quick work to gather the rest of his things, gather the rubbish to throw out, and make his way down to the car.

Crowley really hoped Aziraphale was home. It was likely, but one could never know. He tried to not worry too much about the separation ahead of them. Would they be able to continue their relationship? Would she even want to? So far their relationship had been built by proximity and regular contact, whether Crowley rang or visited. In a different town, working hard to drive his quotas up for his awful boss, Crowley didn’t know how much free time he would have.

All too soon Crowley was pulling into the familiar driveway. Well, there was no time like the present.

Crowley bounded up the path and knocked carefully on the door. It was a few moments before he heard the scrape of the lock and it opened to reveal his beautiful angel.

Aziraphale stood there in a lovely pale green dress and a light brown cardigan. She beamed when she saw that it was him, though her face fell when she realised how distraught he was.

“Is everything alright, Crowley?”

“Oh angel,” Crowley bemoaned and reached out to grab her hands. “I have some bad news.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked down at their joined hands. “Of course. I understand if you changed your mind, of course, I’m sure—”

“What?”

Aziraphale met his confused gaze. “Are you not breaking up with me?”

“No!” Crowley couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “No, no, Aziraphale, no.”

He gathered her in his arms. How could she possibly think that? Crowley kissed the top of her head before they separated.

“I’m sorry for scaring you, angel. The bad news is that my boss is sending me to Heathcote for the month, effective immediately. I won’t be able to take you out on Saturday, or for a little while.”

Aziraphale's face softened and she chuckled slightly.

“Oh! Silly me. That’s, well. It’s not ideal, certainly, and I’ll miss you something awful. But a month isn’t too bad, is it?”

“I suppose not. I was very much looking forward to our date, though.”

“I was too, my dear. But neither of us can change this.”

Crowley thought back to his plans of quitting. “Right.”

Aziraphale reached up and cupped his cheek.

“We’ll be alright, darling. Here,” she stepped back and grabbed something from beside the door. “Take this with you.”

It was the umbrella. The same white umbrella she had given him all those weeks ago. Crowley carefully took it in hand and tried not to get too choked up.

“Thank you.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah, angel?”

“May I kiss you?”

Crowley felt his face flush. He was ready to go slow in the relationship. As slow as they both needed. He hadn’t really expected Aziraphale to make the first move (most likely due to the amount of stories he had heard about men ‘taking the lead’), even with how much he had daydreamed of it. Now that it was on offer, Crowley didn’t think he would survive a month away without having kissed Aziraphale.

“Please.”

Aziraphale stepped forward again, taking Crowley’s face in both her hands now. Crowley dropped the umbrella but neither noticed. His arms wrapped around her waist as they leaned in and in and _wow._

Crowley had never thought it was going to be like _that._ Aziraphale's lips were so soft against him, she was so warm, it felt so wonderful. He didn’t know how long they stood there, embracing and kissing. He didn’t care who saw them, even in full view of the street as they were.

Eventually they stopped. It took a few tries, as they both kept leaning in as soon as they started to separate, but eventually they managed it. They kept standing there, however, in one another’s embrace. Crowley didn’t think he had ever been happier.

Crowley was the one to end the hug. He knew he could keep doing it for many minutes yet—the rest of his life, even—but he was the one who needed to take more initiative with work. And he knew he had to leave.

He awkwardly bent down to retrieve the fallen umbrella and clasped it in both hands to stop himself from reaching out towards Aziraphale again.

“I’ll write you. I’ll call, as much as I can. I promise.”

Aziraphale smiled, even if her eyes were filled with tears. “See that you do. Goodbye, darling.”

Crowley squeezed his hands tighter. “Bye, angel.”

* * *

Crowley didn’t know why travel was so exhausting. Perhaps it was just leftover tiredness from such a topsy turvy week, but he was very grateful to be able to stretch his legs once he arrived. Even if he was staying in a shitty motel for the night while he booked somewhere better, it was, for once, nicer than being in the Bentley for hours without end.

He managed to sort his room out and unpack the essentials before grabbing a quick shower. That certainly made him feel better, although he didn’t feel any more awake as he went to eat dinner at the cafe across the street.

As Crowley tucked into his mediocre roast, he missed Aziraphale. Well, he missed Aziraphale all the time, but nothing had really made it so obvious as the empty spot across from him. He had been so looking forward to their first proper dates. They hadn’t really discussed how long they knew that they loved one another and he wasn’t sure if she had thought of any of their previous socialising in a more romantic context. Although Crowley had hoped that was how Aziraphale had interpreted it but he knew it wasn’t the same. The opportunity to take her out, wine and dine her, or bring her flowers had been snatched from their hands. He knew it was only temporary, but a month seemed so far away.

Crowley did his best not to sink into these morose thoughts as he waited for Aziraphale to pick up the phone. He wasn’t really up for a long conversation but knew she would worry if he didn’t let her know that he got settled in alright.

“Hey, angel,” he murmured as the phone was picked up. Crowley closed his eyes and tipped his head back.

“Hello, dearest. I assume you got to the motel alright?”

“Mmhmm. Even had dinner and everything.”

“Oh good, I am very glad to hear it.”

“Mm.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “You must be exhausted, you poor thing. I won’t keep you but I am happy that you rung anyway. It’s very thoughtful.”

Crowley scrubbed a hand across his face. He didn’t even care that he was blushing. “N’ w’rries.”

“Goodnight, Crowley. I love you.”

“Love you too,” he said through a yawn, and hung up. Crowley basically crawled into bed and fell into sleep.

* * *

The first few days in a new area were always the busiest. Crowley had to explore the town a little, to find out the main points of attraction and landmarks so he didn’t get lost. He also had to do a little reconnaissance to try to discover the more populated areas. Working there would be the most efficient and it made him almost feel a little like being a spy, like that new James Bond people had started talking about. Crowley should ask Aziraphale if she had read any of those books.

Crowley did manage to get to the post office and send Aziraphale a cute little postcard. He hoped it would make up for not being able to ring. It was unfortunate that he wouldn’t be able to receive mail in return, seeing as he was bouncing around from hotel to hotel for the whole month. Crowley was happy to take the initiative, of course, but he was sure (or at least, he hoped) that Aziraphale also wanted to call or write to him sometimes on her own whim.

It was still painful to be away from her, even with the wonders of the Royal Mail.

A couple of days later Crowley had settled into a rhythm and felt energetic enough to hold a proper phone call. He was sure to call Aziraphale after dinner, not wanting to interrupt her meal.

It was so wonderful to hear her voice. They didn’t really speak about anything extraordinary—how Crowley was finding Heathcote, the postcard Aziraphale had received, what she had been reading and baking. But it was wonderful all the same. Crowley assumed—and hoped—that this is what people did in the first stages of courting. He was flying blind, really, but he didn’t like admitting it. He figured that conversation would come out later.

Crowley spent the majority of a day distributing Sedah business cards around the local area. Of course, that took more charm and convincing than usual, as he was getting other businesses to promote his own. It also involved more purchases than Crowley would have liked of things he didn’t necessarily want or need. But he had to try every trick in the book if he was to meet Lagorio’s all important quota.

As Crowley fell into the rhythm with work, he also fell into a rhythm with Aziraphale. Apparently courting was somewhat of an old-fashioned word but he thought it more appropriate than dating. He averaged out three telephone calls per week, between taking care of himself and paperwork and trying to sell watches to strangers. He didn’t like the idea of delaying Aziraphale's sleep but she assured him that it’s not as if she had a strict schedule to stick to. Some nights they stayed up talking for hours.

He continued the postcards and letters. When he was tired Crowley’s eyes weren’t the most reliable, so a lot of tiny handwriting sometimes became difficult. But Aziraphale deserved them, so he did his best. They were mostly daily observations of things he thought she would like—what the local bakery sold, the secondhand bookshop with its unusual organisational methods, the ducks at the local park. He hoped it helped her to imagine where Crowley was. Maybe that would make her less lonely.

Crowley even got a few song dedications on the station he knew Aziraphale listened to. He organised those on his longer days off after ensuring that Aziraphale would be tuning in. He didn’t think he quite managed to be sneaky about it, but she appreciated it all the same. Hearing the smile in her voice was almost enough to dull the ache in his heart.

It was still exhausting. Thinking about it didn’t help, but Crowley assumed that his boss had planned it on purpose for him to try to double sales in a town that wasn’t at all interested in watches. They were long days with little sales and Crowley’s mood started to decline. He thought he could stick it out. He knew he _should_ stick it out. He couldn’t take Aziraphale out if he had no money. Crowley had a not-so-insignificant amount of money in savings, sure, but that had always been for the imagined wife and kids that everyone told him he would one day have. He didn’t think kids were probably possible but, well. A wife may be in his future. He was intimately aware of his own flaws so he at least wanted to appear somewhat stable so as to not scare Aziraphale off just yet.

That came out during his phone calls, even if he didn’t wish to. Crowley knew he had complained early on about how the new management had changed the ‘art of selling’ that he had enjoyed for so many years. Of course, he thought there was a large difference between disliking one’s boss and absolutely loathing his job. But still, he couldn’t exactly hide the exhaustion. He wasn’t that good of an actor.

“You sound tired, my dear.”

“I am, angel. A doubled quote in a town that doesn’t seem keen on purchasing watches. Who knows what Mr Lagorio will do if I don’t meet it.”

“I’m sorry if this is none of my business, Crowley, but have you thought about… well, there’s no sense in beating around the bush. Leaving? Starting afresh somewhere else?”

Crowley froze. “I mean. It’s not that I _haven’t_ considered it, it just doesn’t seem like a particularly… wise… move, at the moment.”

“Leaving a job that makes you miserable and exhausted? I’m afraid I’m not following.”

Damn. “Well,” Crowley said with a drawl. “I don’t have anything else lined up, so it wouldn’t be really sensible, would it?”

Silence on the other end of the line. “Crowley, please do tell me if I am being too forward. I know simply because we’re together doesn’t mean I have a right to, well, any of your personal life. But with the suits and the car I assumed, possibly incorrectly, that you’re… okay, financially?”

“Wha— yeah— _of course,_ angel. Saved up for the Bentley, didn’t I? No, I’m uh, more than fine, I promise.”

“Then I admit I can’t really understand the problem.”

Crowley groaned to himself and curled the cord around his finger. “I want to do this _right,_ angel,” he confessed. “You know, take you out, provide. I know I’m not much of a man but at least I can do that.”

Silence, again. “Crowley. My darling. Did I not tell you that day that whoever you are, man or not, you’re perfect for me?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“And aren’t we both adults who have looked after ourselves, independently, for quite some time?”

“Of course, although—”

“And don’t you think I want you to be happy, above all else, notions for _providing,_ or not?”

Crowley swallowed. “...Maybe.”

“I clearly have failed so please, let me spell it out to you. Crowley, I love _you._ Not what you can do for me, not what you can financially provide. You. I would love you if we had to share a bedsit and I would love you if we dined at the Ritz everyday. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, again, I’m not entirely sure where these notions have gotten into your head but I don’t, in fact, need a man to provide for me. I know this isn’t exactly romantic talk but it is obviously very necessary. Georgie’s only relative, his sister, lives in New Zealand and it has taken some time to sort the will and all. As his wife, his widow rather, I inherit almost everything. So I truly do not need you to worry about me in that regard.”

“Of course, angel. I’m sorry, I—” He started to apologise.

“Hush, dear. Let me finish. Although we may appear to the public like any other couple, we both know who we are, yes? I had a wonderful life with Georgie in which we were equals. I was hoping to have the same with you, without these frankly stupid ideas of what women and men are supposed to do.”

Crowley had never heard her quite so heated.

“We may have to pretend sometimes to be traditional but don’t you see how the world is changing? Why can’t it start at home for us? I’m not expecting you to take me out and treat me and me do nothing for you in return. Have I led you to believe that that’s what I want, somehow?”

Crowley took a moment to process that. He had never been enough. Not really for his family, not for his nonexistent friends, and not for his bosses. He thought… playing the role that society had taught him to be was the way to keep Aziraphale around. He had no experience with romance outside of the cinema or the radio. He learned from them and did his best to imitate and hoped that he wasn’t doing something wrong. But clearly he had.

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I really am. For not… trusting you enough to talk to you about this. I haven’t ever, um, courted or dated _anybody_ before,” he admitted.

“I’ve never really had romantic feelings for anyone before,” Crowley continued. “I was just assuming this was what you would want, you know, the traditional way that films and love stories show us. And I never really thought I would tell anyone about my… not-man stuff, let alone be accepted for it, so,” Crowley wiped at his face. God, he was crying now, too?

“I guess I was just trying to do the right thing. What I thought was right, anyway,” he added bitterly.

 _“Darling,_ ” Aziraphale said earnestly. “I had no idea…”

“Yeah, well. Almost thirty, one doesn’t like to admit that sort of thing.”

“I understand now, of course, though that doesn’t mean I’m not sad that you didn’t think you could talk to me about it. I love you. Thank you for telling me.”

“I love you, too,” Crowley quietly replied.

“There really aren’t any rules, you know. As you said, we’re almost thirty and I’ve already been married, once. I don’t think anyone is expecting us to date like teenagers.”

Crowley chuckled. “You’re probably right. Meeting you, angel, I realised… well, I realised how lonely I’ve been. I don’t really have friends to talk to about anything at all, really. So I suppose I just get too in my head about things.”

“Well I’m always happy to listen to you, sweetheart. Always, no matter what it’s about.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, I better let you go now, it’s getting late. But please do think about what I said, Crowley. About your job and such. There’s no shame in quitting if it is making you so unhappy. But if you do believe that you need something to head straight into, perhaps think about it?”

“Sounds good, angel. Love you. Night.”

“Goodnight, dearest.”

That gave Crowley a lot to think about over the next few days. What _did_ he want his life to look like, outside of what he had been told? What was his dream?

Before it had seemed like an intangible hope. One of quitting, one of cutting his life clear in two, to sever the half without Aziraphale. It was a method of channelling his supposedly inevitable heartbreak. The thought of running away from it all was a comforting one.

Now an offer was presented to him, clear as anything. Quit the job he had grown to hate, find something else, do something, _anything_ else and be with the woman that he loved.

But Crowley had no idea where to begin. With the war and all, the idea of giving students career advice was the furthest from most teachers’ minds. Everyone was just trying to survive and Crowley jumped at the opportunity for the first job that really came to him.

What did he even like? Well, he knew he liked wine, but he didn’t want to work in a pub or something. England didn’t have vineyards as far as he knew, so that was out. His childhood hopes of becoming a rock star were definitely off the table, he could hardly hold a tune. He liked his crossword—doing them, not writing, though. He liked sleep, but Crowley doubted there was much money in that. He liked driving the Bentley, he had enjoyed repairing it over the years, too. He considered mechanic as an option, although it was very unlikely that someone would take him on as an apprentice. Crowley tried to maintain Aziraphale's sense of eternal optimism even as the options dwindled.

The only other thing Crowley liked doing was taking care of his plants. Perhaps he could do something with those? The prospect of upheaving his life like that became too daunting and Crowley let those ideas simmer at the back of his mind for a few more days.

He wondered what Aziraphale's dreams were like. Crowley resolved to ask her the next time they spoke.

* * *

Crowley was having a bit of a miserable day. It had been raining since before he woke up and he was feeling… off, like he sometimes did. Speaking it aloud with Aziraphale had made Crowley realise what that might be about but it still was terrifying to really admit that to himself. He was immensely glad to return to the hotel for the evening, wrap himself in his robe, and call his sweetheart.

“How are you, darling?”

“I’m okay, angel,” Crowley murmured, still upset. “How have you been?”

“Perfectly fine. Missing you, as always. Are you sure that you’re alright, Crowley? I hope you know that you can always talk to me, about anything.”

Could Crowley do this? He knew that no one else was listening. He couldn’t get in some kind of trouble from talking about it in a private conversation, but it wasn’t as if he was unaware of the large majority of people and what they thought.

But then, he remembered, that Aziraphale had gone through much of the same. More, even, to live as herself.

“I’m not, Aziraphale, I’m,” Crowley sighed. “‘Not feeling… particularly mannish, today,” he finished in a whisper. His eyes stung and he shut them tight.

“Oh, my dear… Thank you for telling me. I know how terrifying it must be to share. I’m sorry you’re having a bad day, my love.”

“Thanks.”

“Is there anything I can do? I know it’s hard being so far away but… would a different name help? Or…” She seemed at a loss for words. Crowley felt much the same.

“Whatever did I do to deserve you, Aziraphale Ingels?” Crowley choked out. “It feels wrong, angel. The things I feel, that I want. I don’t know how to…” he sniffled. “I don’t know.”

“ _Dearest_ ,” she said. “Where are you now? In your room?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you bathed already? Gotten into your pyjamas?”

“Yeah, I did as soon as my shift ended. It’s pouring here, though your umbrella kept me dry.” Crowley grabbed a nearby handkerchief and wiped his nose. “I’m in, well. I have this robe.”

“Yes?”

“Mmyeah. I got it, dunno, maybe five years ago now? When I was working, god, in Brighton or somewhere. Had an afternoon off, wandering through the village shops or what have you. I don’t usually buy stuff, I just like, you know, seeing what they have? It’s fascinating.”

“I agree.”

That agreement gave Crowley a little boost of confidence to keep telling the story.

“Yeah. Anyway, came across this little boutique. It was very nice. Was a hot day, too, so I was glad to be out of the sun. I looked around a bit—the men’s section was quite small so eventually I drifted over to the, uh, women’s side.”

“Mm?”

“Yeah. And they had this robe. All satin-like. It’s a dark green, I dunno if you would call it emerald, or what, and has these tiny red roses all over it. Long, goes almost to the ankle. And I just… wanted it. So badly. I guess I never really, um, let myself think about that kind of stuff? Because it’s so impossible to actually do anything about—” Crowley cut himself off before he became more upset.

“So you bought it, I take it?” Aziraphale kindly filled in.

“Yeah, yeah, I did. Said I was buying it for my mother, spun some tale about how she loved roses and it was perfect for her. The assistant ate it up. Fortunately I was moved a week later so I didn’t have to risk bumping into her again, in case she asked or whatever. I only wear it at home or, well, in private I guess. Makes me feel more like… me,” Crowley finished weakly. “God, here I am talking your ear off about a robe of all things.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale chastised. “For one, I did ask you about it. I always want to hear about you, anything you want to share. And I suppose I shall remind you as often as you need it. And I am very glad you told me. It’s nice to imagine you there in it.”

“Ngk! _Angel.”_

“What?” She asked, all too innocently. “It’s not as if I said I was imagining what was _underneath_ it.”

Crowley crossed his legs tightly. “I didn’t know this was going to be one of those kinds of telephone calls.”

Aziraphale's laugh sparkled through the crackly receiver. “I’m sorry, dear, I’m getting far too ahead of myself. Let’s return to our conversation, shall we? So the robe helps some? I’m glad to hear it.”

“Yeah. Feels nice, it’s nice to imagine who I could be in it. You know, long hair, lipstick…” Crowley trailed off and bit his tongue. He hadn’t meant to say that.

“Well the latter is easy enough. I’d be happy to let you borrow any of mine whenever you like.”

Crowley hadn’t even considered that. “Do you mean it, Aziraphale?”

“Of course! I don’t particularly like remembering a time before all this but I was much the same when I first started out. Lord knows Georgie spent enough time critiquing my application abilities. If it would make you happy, Crowley, I’d do anything. I’d very well give my flaming sword away and all.”

Crowley blinked. “I’m sorry, angel, I don’t follow.”

“Oh!” She chuckled. “Oh, it was something in a short story I was reading. A bit ridiculous, but this character was giving a flaming sword to protect a garden and ended up giving it away to help a pregnant woman. Everything else would take too long to explain but clearly it’s still on my mind.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Indeed. So would that be something you’re interested in? Me making you over, or helping, at least?”

Crowley thought about it. In his soft robe, Aziraphale in one, too, or maybe her nightgown. Sat in front of her vanity. Leaning close together as she carefully lined his lips. Being accepted. Being loved.

“Um. Yes, please?”

Aziraphale had the decency not to laugh at Crowley’s obvious vulnerability. “Of course, darling. As soon as you get back we’ll set a date, alright?”

“Thanks,” Crowley said softly.

“Is there anything I can do when we’re separated, though? Like I said, I could call you something else, if you like.”

Crowley shrugged to the bare room. “Crowley’s always felt like me. Anthony not so much, but no one really calls me that to begin with.”

“Hmm.” There was silence as Aziraphale seemingly contemplated something. “What about a different pet name, when you’re feeling more… feminine, I presume? I wouldn’t want to overstep, we haven’t really talked about how you feel besides what you _don’t_ feel. You know how I tend to call everyone dear anyway?”

Crowley huffed. “Yes, I’m well aware.”

“Then would ‘my dear girl’ be too much?”

Goosebumps broke out on Crowley’s skin. “Say it again, please?”

“My dear girl, of course.”

“Um.”

“It’s alright if you don’t like it, Crowley—”

“No! I, um, really, _really_ do.”

“Oh! Oh, I’m so glad. I have to admit that I’m quite frustrated that I’m not there to cuddle you and take care of you, so I’m happy to give you this small comfort, at least.”

“Me too.”

“Is there anything else you want to talk about? Obviously I’m only a woman of my own experience but if you have any questions or anything, I’m more than willing to hear them.”

Crowley thought back to his reflection from the other day. “Um, I do have a question, but it’s not about… this.”

“My dear girl, whatever you like,” Aziraphale said warmly.

“Our last telephone call got me thinking and, well. Do you have a dream, angel? For your future, for your career, perhaps? I’ve been considering what you said and realised we haven’t really talked about your own plans.”

“That’s very considerate of you, darling. You know how I like my books and well, university wasn’t exactly on the cards for me. Still, I’ve always hoped to make something of a… community library, for people like me. Like us,” she said. “I didn’t dare risk it here in Tadfield, I had to take mine and Georgie’s reputations into consideration, of course. It would be somewhat dangerous, I suppose, but important nevertheless. Finding out about all of this was so difficult and, well. I hope that one day it isn’t.”

“That’s beautiful, angel.”

“And I have, ah, a surgery coming up in a few months, that I’ve been looking forward to for quite a while,” Aziraphale continued. “I’m not sure if that was what you were going for but I do believe I will feel even more like myself, once that happens.”

“I’m happy for you. I feel like we should probably discuss the details of that another time? So I can make sure I’m off work and can take you.”

“You would?”

Crowley frowned. “Of course. I love you and this is part of you like anything else. I want to be there… if you want me to be there, that is.”

“I would like it very, very much. I love you, my dear girl.”

“Excellent. It’s a date, then. I,” Crowley yawned, suddenly exhausted. “I better let you go. Or I better sleep. In any case.”

“Of course. Goodnight, Crowley. Sweet dreams.”

“Night, angel. Love you.”

* * *

As the weeks went on, Crowley did have some success in Heathcote. His mood shifted and the rain cleared, which brought him a more positive outlook on the situation. He still wasn’t sure if he was going to make Mr Lagorio’s quota. In all honesty, Crowley wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to continue on at all. Sometimes he was tempted to just pack up and hightail it back to Aziraphale.

His heart wasn’t in it anymore, he could see that now. All of the talk with Aziraphale had been somewhat of a wake up call. Crowley loved selling but selling these products, for these people… it just didn’t satisfy him like it used to.

But he wasn’t going to let this time go to waste. Talking about the robe had reminded Crowley of something else he had been meaning to purchase. It seemed more of a big picture, someday in the future kind of thing before he had poured his heart out to Aziraphale like that. Crowley had realised he didn't want to spend any time without her (more than he already had to, at least).

So Crowley asked around to where he might find a jeweller and a secondhand shop, and he started looking for an engagement ring.

He hadn’t really thought of buying anything like this before, but fortunately for him the shop assistant in the jeweller's was very helpful. She told him about sizes, cuts, styles—which made Crowley realise he had no idea what size Aziraphale was. The shop assistant—Deidre—told him that it could be resized, if it was too big. That gave Crowley some comfort.

He doubted himself, though. Would Aziraphale want to get married again, after loving Georgie so much? Would she want to get married to Crowley? Would she even want an engagement ring—he hadn’t even thought about asking about whether she had one to begin with.

But he was just looking, wasn’t he? Crowley comforted himself with that fact. He didn’t _have_ to buy anything—not here, not now—even if he did keep returning to the nicer of the two second hand shops in town and perusing their jewelry section. Crowley chalked it up to just having… a feeling.

Then, one day, the last day of visiting the shop (which is what Crowley told himself every time)—it was there. Aziraphale's ring. It just had to be hers.

It wasn’t from Tiffany’s or Cartier or anywhere that posh. But that made it all the more perfect, because Crowley was buying it for Aziraphale. He wasn’t trying to be some generic version of a boyfriend hoping to be a fiancé. Crowley was being true to himself. Finally.

* * *

It felt like a hole was being burned through his jacket pocket. At first Crowley had considered just leaving the ring at the hotel but as much as he thought himself somewhat of a disaster at times, he felt much more at ease carrying it around with him all day. It didn’t make it _easy_ , however. It was a constant reminder of what he was planning. 

But soon enough his time in Heathcote was coming to an end and Crowley had a speech to write before he visited Tadfield again. 

He knew it should be better than when he told Aziraphale that he was in love with her. Crowley had barely held himself together then, even with how many times he had rehearsed it. He wanted this to be perfect—as perfect as it could be, anyway. Crowley also knew their time courting had been short, but didn’t everyone say once you knew, you _knew?_ Crowley was more sure of his love for Aziraphale than pretty much anything else in his entire life.

A few more letters and late night phone calls whiled away the time. Since Aziraphale had been baking so much whilst Crowley was away (she said it kept her mind clear and hands busy), he was in charge of bringing back something simple for their first proper dinner date together. He was nervous. He was excited.

Crowley had run through the plan in his mind so many times as he made his last few calls in Heathcote. He decided he would leave early in the morning, which would hopefully give him enough time to get to his flat and double back to Tadfield. He would shower and change, freshen up and try to look presentable after being away for so long. He’d grab a bottle of wine from his collection and then head out. Flowers would be bought from the grocer (barring that they still had fresh ones) and chips from the fish and chip shop.

Then all he would have to do would be go to Aziraphale's, not collapse out of nerves, and propose.

And hopefully she would say yes.

Nothing to worry about.

Right?

It felt like in a blink of an eye Crowley was approaching Aziraphale's door, laden with chips and flowers, a ring and a hope. It was strange to think that his life had changed when that simple door had opened all those weeks ago. Hopefully it would change again tonight.

Crowley just had to wait for Aziraphale to answer it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone concerned, Crowley’s pronouns will be tackled in a later chapter - I promise I’m not misgendering him. And I know the whole getting separated after getting together is very cliche but a) I do what I want b) I love tropes c) it fits with the story and I did have foreshadowing for it. I think it works at least and ultimately that's what matters lol
> 
> Also Heathcote does exist but in Australia, not England. I borrowed the name from my other fic but they are not intended to be the same town - I just needed a name because I hate using actual geography :D 
> 
> Personally I am VERY excited for the next chapter and it’ll only be good plot twists from now on ;) ;)


	9. A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected proposal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No update next week! More details in the end notes. 
> 
> cw alcohol consumption, cemetery visit

Aziraphale had expected the ringing telephone that afternoon to announce a call from Crowley. Either it would be him letting her know that he was on his way, or perhaps even cancelling their date. She wouldn’t blame him—a month away from home was a long time. Aziraphale hadn’t ever done it, seeing as she hadn’t gone away to university nor on a long holiday. She and Georgie had taken a few weekend getaways here and there but his work could be, at times, demanding. A whole month was something else.

Instead of her love on the phone, however, it was Frederick, her lawyer. Aziraphale was surprised as the contemplation of her inheritance had been absent from her mind with all the excitement of her new beau.

Frederick asked her to sit down, too, which was quite the unusual request. She complied all the same—he had been good to her and he sounded awfully serious.

Aziraphale was glad she did as he instructed when he told her how much she would be getting.

She knew they had been comfortable. She knew Georgie’s job was well-paying and that he was responsible with his money. She just didn’t expect _this_ much.

Frederick chalked it up to making several good investments and Aziraphale was inclined to agree. This was in addition to the house and land it sat upon, he was quick to assure her.

Aziraphale thanked Frederick very much and he promised he would talk soon to make sure everything with the bank would be settled. Once he hung up, Aziraphale sunk further into the chair. Anything was possible, now.

She brought her hand to her mouth. Wait until Crowley heard _this._ Aziraphale sincerely hoped those ridiculous, albeit sweet, notions about providing had left his head. They would be perfectly fine if only one of them ended up working part time. Or, she reasoned, if they made more investments, although she wasn’t particularly inclined to go down that route. It felt a little risky and she had no experience in it.

There was a spring in her step as she waltzed around the kitchen preparing things. Aziraphale had been baking up a veritable storm in Crowley’s absence and it was fortunate that the local parish were able to take her leftovers, as did some of her neighbours. She had joked that if she couldn’t have her sweetheart with her, she could at least have a sweetie.

As the clock ticked over Aziraphale was alight with giddiness. Crowley returning made her the most excited, of course. Then telling him about the money and hopefully relieving some of his obvious worry (even if he hadn’t _directly_ told her about it) also filled her with glee. Then, of course, there was the certain box lying on the shelf under the coffee table, next to the sofa.

The telephone calls with Crowley had stoked the idea, as had the proof that even with the physical separation they only had grown closer. Aziraphale couldn’t imagine her life without Crowley, now. What he said about their relationship dynamic, too, made her consider it. It was clear he still had some things to unlearn about their roles—which was perfectly understandable, of course—but it did mean Aziraphale had some things to think over.

Not that she had informed him, but Aziraphale had spent a significant amount of the time that Crowley was away getting rid of the stuff of Georgie’s that still lingered. Or putting it away in the attic storage proper, in preparation for perhaps Crowley’s future moving in. Aziraphale didn’t want to scare him with too much too quickly, but the idea of them being separated any further made her sad. It would make a lot of sense for him to move into the largely empty house, if he didn’t have too many concerns about propriety.

But then she had found Georgie’s ring.

Aziraphale had sat down on the bed when she found it. She knew where she had put it away but that was different from actually holding it in her hands once more. Everything had come together, then, seemingly in an instant. Aziraphale was going to propose.

She had already been proposed to once, even if it was slightly unconventional. She had been lamenting about her future as they walked by the river—she couldn’t possibly stay with her family, but the idea of continuing on as she was to gain an education or career somehow depressed her more. So Georgie had simply turned to her and asked her to marry him. Aziraphale had looked at him like it was a joke, but he took her hand and told her of his love. And his flat. And his job at the company. It seemed all too perfect.

So after several months, after growing her hair and taking hormones and her first surgery and getting her birth certificate changed, they got married. It was a small affair at the courthouse and it was over in less than ten minutes. Two of Georgie’s friends served as witnesses and afterwards they all went out to a late breakfast. It had been perfect for them.

And Aziraphale wanted _this_ to be perfect for Crowley. Despite her usual worries and fears she felt confident that it would go alright. Even if Crowley didn’t want to get married or didn’t want to marry her, things would turn out okay. She had the ring hidden behind one of the supports of the table in preparation for their reunion and had something of a speech in her mind. And as much as Crowley would probably hate her for admitting it, he wasn’t the most… observant, when she was in the room. It would be a surprise to say the least. She hoped it would be a good one.

Aziraphale fussed with things for another couple of hours. She had gone all out and even had a bottle of champagne chilling in the refrigerator. She figured it would go nicely with the Frasier cake she had finished decorating that morning. As the clock ticked over, Aziraphale drifted to the bathroom and checked her makeup for a final time. She hadn’t bothered applying mascara to her lower lashes, in case she started crying.

(Which was a very likely event indeed.)

In all honesty, Aziraphale had expected Crowley to be late with the drive but five thirty on the dot the knock came at the door. It sent shivers up her spine, thrilling her in a way so different to those weeks ago when she thought it would be their last meeting.

Aziraphale all but ran to greet him, keen as mustard to reunite with her love. She threw it open and after a half moment’s recognition that it was, indeed, Crowley, she threw her arms around his neck.

He smelled the same.

Aziraphale didn’t know why that was the first thing that came to her mind but it was true all the same and she hugged him closer. She felt one of the packages he had been holding slide against her back as he held her with one arm.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

After some minutes Aziraphale leaned back to properly look at Crowley’s face. What a lovely face it was, too. They smiled at each other, probably looking quite daft to anyone who would witness it but she didn’t care.

And then, just as suddenly, they were kissing.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure who moved in first but Crowley’s lips were on hers and there was nothing, not a centimetre separating them. It was intoxicating. She hadn’t been kissed like this ever in her life, she had never been kissed properly at all, and now that she had been she hardly wanted to do anything else. Crowley’s mouth opened slightly and he tasted of nothing but the faint notes of salt and vinegar. It didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered but them, and this. Kissing him on her front step for the whole world to see.

Eventually they needed to breathe. It was an unfortunate fact and took quite a few tries of reminding themselves as they kept extending the kiss. But they managed to separate and Crowley extricated himself to present Aziraphale with _flowers._ Oh, what a darling.

“Hi, angel,” Crowley greeted breathlessly, cheeks flushed and looking dazed but pleased. “These are for you.”

They were a beautiful bunch, wrapped in brown paper and all purples, which contrasted nicely with their yellow centres. She told him as much and thanked him.

“You’re, ah, welcome.” Crowley rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand.

Aziraphale clutched the bouquet to her chest. “Oh, where _are_ my manners! Do come in, dear, please,” she said and led him into the house.

As he hung up his hat and coat, Aziraphale said, “don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaking a few chips, Crowley.”

“Wha—, Aziraphale, I mean,” he stammered.

She laughed as she went to find a vase. “It’s perfectly alright, darling, I would have done the same. I could taste them on you, is all.”

Bashful silence filled the other room as Aziraphale filled the vase in the kitchen. She arranged them just so, which gave Crowley time to recover before she returned to put them on the coffee table.

He had settled on the sofa and looked up as she entered and greeted her with that lovely smile again. Aziraphale couldn’t help but reach out and take his hand in hers and press a kiss to the back of it.

“I’ll grab some napkins and some water, alright? Then we can get settled in.”

Crowley nodded and Aziraphale took another moment in the kitchen to try and steady herself. She was going to do this. It would be okay.

When she returned, Crowley had kicked off his shoes and torn open the chips for them to easily reach in.

“Are chips okay? I thought something simple would be good, leave room for the cake and all.”

Aziraphale poured them each a glass and settled next to him on the sofa. “They’re lovely, my dear. Thank you for bringing them.”

Crowley nodded again, his gaze trained on the table. “Good.”

Aziraphale took a sip and placed the glass down, then shifted closer to him. The movement prompted him to look at her and he slowly eased back, then opened his arm in offering. Aziraphale shifted even further, ending up cuddled against his side. It felt wonderful to be held after so long. It was awful, really, that Crowley’s work had taken him away before they were able to become more affectionate. She loved this.

Aziraphale’s hand settled on Crowley’s knee. “I missed you, Crowley.”

Crowley gave a shuddering breath and tipped their heads together. “I missed you, angel. God, so much. I didn’t want you to worry too much but it was… torture, not to be with you.”

Aziraphale’s hand came up to hold Crowley’s face. “I’m here now.”

Another kiss, softer and less urgent this time.

“Oh, I have some wonderful news, I almost forgot to tell you!”

Crowley blinked at her. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said with a nod. “You know how I was still waiting for everything to be sorted with Georgie’s will and all?”

“Mm.”

“Well, the lawyer called today and said everything was all but sorted.”

“That’s wonderful, angel, I’m glad—”

“That’s not the good news,” Aziraphale interrupted. “The good news is that apparently my husband had quite the investment portfolio—finances were always something I had found dull, to be frank—and, well. It appears that I will be quite comfortable for the rest of my days.”

“Is it rude for me to ask how exactly comfortable you’ll be, angel?”

Aziraphale told him the figure.

Crowley’s eyebrows went so high that they threatened to leave his face. “Wow, Aziraphale. That’s… wow.”

It was the perfect time. She could see that now.

“So those things we were talking about, our future plans, your career, the providing…” Aziraphale furrowed her brow. “I don’t want you to worry about them, alright Crowley? I don’t, ah, expect to _keep_ you or anything but for the moment just,” she patted his knee. “Allow yourself to consider everything, hmm? To do something you want, rather than what you have to?”

Crowley nodded, a somewhat vacant expression on his face as he absorbed the information. “Right, yeah, I, um, understand, I think.”

Aziraphale drew a breath and in a flash, slipped off the sofa and grabbed the box from under the table. She knelt before Crowley, fussing with her skirts for a moment before she remembered that they weren’t the priority.

He sat up properly and looked down at her, obviously confused and shocked at the new situation. “Angel?”

“Crowley,” oh god, her hands were shaking. “I can’t help but take this as a sign of some kind, from Georgie or the universe or someone. That there is nothing stopping us, now, from living the life we want together.”

Crowley pressed a hand to his mouth and his eyes went misty. Aziraphale hoped she would make it through without sobbing.

“When I met you, I thought you were incredibly handsome, but I didn’t _want_ to think about it. I tried to tell myself that you were a charlatan, and that it was dangerous or wrong, for someone like me to want you. I know those are falsehoods, now, of course. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and couldn’t stop thinking about how I _shouldn’t_ be thinking about you. You see, I very much fancied this gorgeous redhead who was quite terrible at selling me a watch.”

Crowley laughed wetly at that notion.

“But you showed me your heart,” Aziraphale continued, growing more serious. “You let your guard down and you were kind, and thoughtful, and passionate, and charming. Then I was truly in trouble. If I were honest with myself, I knew I was infatuated. I knew our telephone calls and you visiting was far too familiar for simply being part of a sales strategy. But I lived in denial to… try and keep myself safe. To try to stop my heart from being broken,” Aziraphale took a breath and swallowed around her suddenly tight throat. Above her, Crowley hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Then there was that awful day with Gabriel and I asked for you to bring the order form because you saving my groceries had made me admit that to myself that I was in love with you. And I couldn’t let this continue on. It would only hurt more.” Aziraphale wiped at her cheeks with her free hand.

“And then you loved me back,” she said through tears. “You loved _me,_ Crowley, even after I told you things that would send most people far, far away. It was all my wishes coming true at once. So when you were gone I realised that I couldn’t imagine my life without you. I didn’t want to.”

This was it, now.

“I know it’s only been a short while and we haven’t even discussed it. Marriage might not even be something you want, but,” she shakily opened the ring box and Crowley gasped. Aziraphale smiled up at him. “Crowley, would you do me the honour of marrying me?”

There was a loud thud as Crowley slipped off the sofa and into her arms. It was his turn to throw his arms around Aziraphale’s neck as he croaked out an enthusiastic “yes!” in her ear. Aziraphale’s tears started flowing freely now as she extricated her arm with the ring box to hold her love, her _fiancé,_ properly. Aziraphale could feel Crowley shaking against her. She sincerely hoped they were happy tears and she assumed as much when he repeated his answer several more times. She didn’t think she had ever been happier.

After some time, Crowley released her and sat back enough for her to shakily place the ring on his finger. He watched her movements so carefully then held his hand up to the light, in front of his face. The look of awe was something she would never forget.

He brought his hand down and Aziraphale quietly hoped they could return to kissing.

“Wait!” Crowley said suddenly and started patting himself down as if looking for something. Aziraphale did as instructed, curious as to what Crowley was indeed searching for.

From an inner jacket pocket, the bulge in which Aziraphale could clearly see now, Crowley withdrew an almost identical ring box.

He fumbled to get it open with shaking hands and revealed a beautiful engagement ring.

Aziraphale gasped when she realised and looked back up at his face.

“It seems you beat me to it, angel,” he said, mirth clear in his voice.

“Oh, _Crowley._ ”

“I had it all planned out. There’s wine in my car and everything—” Aziraphale started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“I have champagne in the fridge!”

Crowley chuckled. “Of course. Well, we have plenty to drink, at least. This was… so much better than I had planned, though, so I’ll keep this short. Aziraphale Ingels, the love of my life,” that made her heart skip a beat. What a beautiful turn of phrase. “Will you make me the happiest person in the world and marry me?”

“Yes, of course I will!”

Crowley took the ring out of the box and threw the empty vessel onto the sofa. His hands shook so much that he dropped the ring at first and Aziraphale had to bite her lip to stop from laughing.

“Now, I don’t know if this will fit, the assistant said I could resize it—” Crowley slipped it onto Aziraphale’s finger with ease. It fit perfectly. “Oh.”

He held her hand in his like she was the most precious thing in the world. Carefully, gently. Crowley made her feel so special, so cherished, and she was so happy to be engaged to him. It was all too simple to tip forward and start kissing him.

Time seemed to have turned pleasantly treacle-like as it flowed around them; soft and viscous. Aziraphale's lips tingled and she knew if she looked in the mirror they would be pink and swollen. Once they ended the kiss she plucked Crowley’s handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his mouth. It seemed all of her lipstick had transferred onto him. It was funny, how she had applied her makeup for her tears and not for their kisses. In any case it was quick work and they were both mostly put together once more.

“I’m sorry, angel, but could we move back to the sofa? I don’t think this floor is good for my knees.”

Aziraphale blushed as she realised that they were still pressed together on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table. She had forgotten where she was completely, except for being in Crowley’s arms.

“Of course! No need to apologise—if anything I should apologise, look at me, being a terrible host,” she fussed.

Crowley stood up with a groan and stretched. “No harm done.” He returned to his original seat. “The chips might be a little cold, though. It seems we got,” he didn’t meet her eyes, “distracted.”

Aziraphale giggled. “Indeed. How about I heat them in the oven and we open up that champagne, hmm?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

* * *

Half an hour later, Crowley and Aziraphale were curled up together on the sofa, sharing chips, champagne, and exchanging salty-sweet kisses. It had taken only a light bit of convincing for Crowley to end up mostly in Aziraphale’s lap. He had a ridiculous worry about being too heavy, so Aziraphale all but dragged him on top of her. It was a scene she had been using to keep her lonely nights warm and it was even better in person. The champagne clearly went straight to Crowley’s head as he kept trying to feed Aziraphale chips, one by one. It was cute, if a little daft. Everything he did was adorable, really.

The chips were soon devoured—it was clear that neither of them had eaten much that day, if only by their flushed cheeks and near-constant giggles. Crowley insisted on waiting before they had some cake, though. He didn’t want Aziraphale to move just yet.

“I never thought I’d be a bride even once, let alone twice,” Aziraphale contemplated aloud.

Crowley fumbled for her hand and kissed the back of it. “And what a beautiful bride you’ll be.”

“Flatterer.”

“I’m merely observant.”

Crowley somehow swivelled around and drank from some of the water that still sat on the table, rather than the remaining liquid in his champagne flute.

“Can I ask you something, angel?” He sounded serious.

“Always.”

“Did you mean what you said before, about the money and work? I don’t want to become indebted to you…”

Aziraphale sat up as best she could, heavy with drink and merry. “Crowley. We are partners, aren’t we?” She waited until he nodded in agreement. “Money is the least of what I could give you.”

Crowley frowned. “So you’re saying I should quit.”

It was clear he needed to be corrected. She managed to put her glass down safely and fumbled to take his hands in her own. “What I am _saying_ is that you shouldn’t feel obligated to stay in a job you hate for my sake, when all I want is for you to be happy. I see how it crushes your spirit and I have to admit that I loathe it.”

“Hmmph.” Crowley looked at their joint hands. “You do see how it is difficult for me, yes? Everything I’ve ever been told…”

“I know,” Aziraphale squeezed them. “But have you considered that I may want to take care of you? To provide and protect, despite what _I_ have been told what a woman should be?”

“I do now. I apologise, it seems I get emotional with the drink.”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing to apologise for. I’m always happy to hear you out, and to set you straight.”

Crowley finally looked up at her, a smile blooming on her face.

“What?” She asked, wanting to be let in on the joke.

He only smiled wider and, thoughts sluggish, it took a moment for it to sink in.

“Oh!” Aziraphale said with a laugh. “Straight! Imagine!”

Both she and Crowley were overcome with giggles, leaning on each other for support. Their heads almost bumped together in the movements which only made them laugh harder.

Once they settled Crowley pushed his sleeve up enough to check his watch.

“It seems we’ve lost track of time, angel.”

“Have we? Well, we can hardly be blamed—we did get engaged, you know!”

“Yeah,” Crowley smiled to himself. “But I should probably go.” Crowley swung his legs off Aziraphale's lap and made to stand, albeit quite wobbly.

Aziraphale tsked. “I won’t have you driving in this state. If you really want to insist on propriety, you can take the spare room.”

“I don’t know…” Crowley blinked as he realised something. “Aziraphale, are you saying that you would…?”

Aziraphale shrugged and cut him off. “I do trust you, Crowley, but whatever would make you comfortable. Besides, we haven’t even touched dessert!”

He considered the proposition for a few moments then relaxed back into her embrace. “The spare room sounds… good.”

Aziraphale beamed. “Wonderful. Let me get the cake?”

* * *

Aziraphale woke up slowly, feeling far more poorly than she was used to. In fact, she attempted to bury her head in her pillow and return to sleep, which was most unusual for the early-riser. Her mouth felt… furry, for lack of a better word, and it took several minutes for her to remember the events that had preceded her slumber.

Sitting up took longer, as did mustering the energy to don her housecoat and walk slowly to the bathroom. She didn’t turn the light on, far more content to do her minimal ablutions in the semi-darkness.

Washing her face made her feel slightly better, although it was clear she hadn’t been hungover for quite a long time. Aziraphale was no longer adjusted to the habit, it seemed, and she resolved to take the morning as slowly as she needed to.

She paused for a moment at the door to the spare room and listened. She held her breath, then released it as she heard the sound of Crowley snoring on the other side. He liked his sleep, so she would let him continue as long as he needed. It wouldn’t do to preemptively wake up one’s _fiancé_ so early in the morning, particularly if he needed to recover.

Aziraphale surveyed the living room and although she was somewhat shocked by the state of it, she couldn’t chastise herself for it. She and Crowley had become _engaged_ and they had celebrated—cleaning up wasn’t a priority. Now sober in the light of day it was far easier to tidy the rubbish and glasses that had accumulated over the living room.

In the kitchen, she poked around the cupboards to determine whether she still had— there it was, just enough coffee for the two of them. Perfect. She much preferred tea but assumed Crowley would require something far stronger this morning.

As it percolated, Aziraphale went and collected the milk and newspaper. She drained a glass of water and filled it again, then collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs. That was about as much activity she was capable of doing for the moment—she hadn’t even put makeup on. Aziraphale attempted to breathe through the lingering nausea and focused on something much more pleasant—the ring on her finger. She closed her eyes as she recollected the night before. How wonderful. How perfect it was.

A soft noise broke up her daydreams and Aziraphale realised Crowley stood in the kitchen doorway, looking at her curiously. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile at the vision. His usually combed-back hair was all over the place—it even had a slight curl to it—and in lieu of the regular rotation of suits, Crowley was covered in Aziraphale’s dressing gown that she had left at the foot of the bed for him.

“Morning, angel,” he murmured and shuffled forward to join her at the table. As Crowley did so she noticed how pale he was looking. It seems she had fared far better than he had after most of the bottle of champagne that they had polished off between them.

“Good morning, dear,” she said just as softly, albeit more cheerfully, and tried to kiss him before she fixed his coffee. Crowley’s lips remained tightly pressed together and she raised a curious eyebrow at him.

“Hav’n’t brushed my teeth,” he confessed.

“Aren’t you thoughtful,” Aziraphale praised and continued on her way to get Crowley’s cup.

She placed a glass of water in front of him first and held the mug above his head. “Water, then coffee.”

He grumbled slightly but did as she requested. Crowley hunched over the coffee protectively once she exchanged the drinks and she had to press her lips together to stop herself from laughing. This sleepy, unguarded version of Crowley was a delight.

Aziraphale made herself a cup, much heavier on the cream and sugar, and carefully sat down to ensure the chair didn’t scrape. Crowley’s eyes had fallen shut and he seemed to be basking in the scent of coffee like one did with vapours when sick with a winter chill. To distract herself from staring, she opened the newspaper and turned to the puzzle section.

It was a comfortable, domestic silence. After Crowley’s hesitation over staying the night, Aziraphale had half expected him to sneak out in the early morning, even with the state he was in. She didn’t expect it to be so… easy. It appeared that their collective overthinking was a problem, but that was something to consider on another day. The fact that Crowley sat there in her pink dressing gown, content to be seen and to be himself, was all that Aziraphale could ask for.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed before Crowley began to wake up. Aziraphale became invested in the crossword anyway, humming to herself and scratching with the pencil as the rest of the world fell away. She looked up at the sound of Crowley shifting to stand and get more coffee. Aziraphale smiled again, pleased to see him still at ease, even if he returned to the land of the living.

Crowley settled down once more after moving the chair closer to her, the charmer that he was. She gave him a pointed look at the gesture but his expression turned to one of feigned ignorance. Then he glanced down at the paper and looked back up at her.

“You doing the crossword, angel?”

“Mhmm. I do it every morning, if I can.”

Crowley grinned lopsidedly. “So do I.”

“Really?” She asked, eyebrows raised. Although she knew Crowley far better than when they had first met, it still seemed out of character for him. 

“Yep. Start it at home and take it with me on the road. Every morning.”

Aziraphale joined his smile as she realised the serendipitous nature of their relationship. “It appears eight down has something to say about that.”

Crowley lifted his hands as if to say ‘may I?’ and Aziraphale happily slid the paper over to him.

He mouthed the clue and other letters to himself as he worked it out. His head shot up once he got it. “Ineffable, Aziraphale? Really?”

Aziraphale’s laugh that had threatened to burst further all morning finally came out. Crowley snatched the pencil from in front of her and muttered something like “I’ll show _you_ ineffable”.

He filled in the squares and with an impressive amount of energy that Aziraphale attributed to the consumption of coffee, deposited himself on her lap, and started pressing kisses all over her face. It only made Aziraphale giggle further, the slight scratch of his scruff and the frantic movements tickling her.

Eventually the laughter subsided and Aziraphale recovered, slightly out of breath under her fiancé. It was lovely to have Crowley so close and she leaned up just enough to kiss the side of his mouth, long and tender, since he refused to kiss her properly.

“Do you have anywhere you need to be, Crowley?”

He shifted and wrapped his arms more securely around her neck after adjusting the dressing gown to stop it from rising. “Not really. I’ll probably just go home and sleep more, to be honest with you. Have an awful headache.”

Aziraphale clicked her tongue and felt his forehead. “You poor dear.”

“What about you, angel?”

She hummed. “I have a bit of a strange request, as it were.”

“...Okay.”

“Could you perhaps drive me somewhere?” Aziraphale played with loose ends of the tie around Crowley’s waist, then stopped when it seemed to make him more nervous.

“Of course. Anywhere you want to go. Do I get to know where I’m taking you, though?”

“Ah, yes. The cemetery.”

“The cemete— oh,” he frowned. “Of course, Aziraphale. You only had to ask.”

Aziraphale ducked her head. “Thank you, my dear. It seems, ah, that I have a lot to tell Georgie about.”

Crowley carefully reached out and grabbed her left hand with his. “Indeed,” he said just as softly.

As well as Crowley was doing, Aziraphale still felt awkward about asking her current beau to drop her at her deceased husband’s grave. A change of topic was in order.

“Would you like some breakfast dear? I think I have some eggs—”

Crowley groaned.

“Crowley?”

“Sorry, but I feel too sick to even think about food.”

She felt a pang in her chest. “Of course, I should have realised. I—”

“Aziraphale,” he said firmly.

She finally looked up at Crowley. “Yes?”

“It’s okay. We’re okay.”

She swallowed around the lump in her throat and nodded. Crowley tipped their heads together.

“If you want something, go ahead. I might as well get dressed.”

“You can shower if you want, my dear,” Aziraphale offered. “I can’t help you with fresh clothes, but perhaps that would help?”

“That would be great, actually,” he replied and climbed off, disappearing down the hall with a slight swish.

* * *

Aziraphale made herself some toast while Crowley got situated in the bathroom. She felt more settled after it, although some faint feelings of sickness continued. There was nothing to be done about it but wait, she remembered that much, so she returned to her bedroom.

She would have preferred a shower as well—she had that strange sticky feeling one got when dehydrated—and she knew that Crowley would have waited for her if she asked. However, Aziraphale didn’t wish to keep him longer than she already was. She wanted to send him home and back to sleep.

Aziraphale donned a dress she knew Georgie loved and she fixed her makeup sitting by her vanity. She was so used to living alone that half was strewn in the bathroom and half in the bedroom. She resolved to collect it and organise it all so it would fit properly against her mirror. Just in case this situation came up again in future.

Her hair was a state, but it was not as if anyone but Crowley and the bus driver were going to see it. She tied a kerchief around it, which did something to obscure the fright that her curls had become. A generous spritz of perfume also made up for the lack of showering.

Crowley was waiting by the door in his suit from the day before. Although wrinkled, he looked infinitely better for the shower that he just had. Aziraphale collected her handbag, ensuring that she had her keys and purse, and they were off.

It was a bit of a quiet drive. It seemed Crowley was trying to give her the space to feel whatever it was she was feeling. He was awfully considerate. Still, Aziraphale couldn’t help but keep her hand on Crowley’s knee as she gave him directions. It must be complicated for him, she supposed, and she should properly talk about it later. But for now she wanted to speak to Georgie before she did anything.

Crowley pulled to a stop in the small cemetery car park and placed his hand on top of hers. He turned to her and looked worried.

“Are you sure that you’re alright to get home? I can wait, if you need me to.”

Aziraphale shook her head with a bittersweet smile. “I’ll be fine, thank you, dear. The bus is just down a ways, I’ve caught it before.”

“Alright. I’ll call you tonight? If you want?”

“I would like that very much.” Aziraphale crossed the short distance and kissed Crowley’s cheek. “I love you, darling. Thank you.”

“I love you,” Crowley murmured, in that lovely deep timbre of his. As he inhaled her perfume, Aziraphale squeezed his hand and slipped out of the Bentley.

She watched him drive away, then centred herself and began the walk over to where Georgie was buried. The cemetery was nice enough, well maintained with some lovely trees. She thought Georgie would like the landscaping—he had always had much more of a green thumb than she did.

Soon she came across his plot and knelt to sit facing his headstone.

Aziraphale traced her fingers over the golden engravings, as she did at the start of every visit, then sat back in a more comfortable position.

“Good morning, my dear,” she softly began. “What a great deal of news I have for you! Crowley said yes! Oh, I should really start at the beginning. I found your ring when I was cleaning up some things, you see. It’s only, well, things have gone so well with Crowley that I wanted to be prepared, you know? And it felt like a sign. I simply didn’t want to be without him—the month was hard enough. And he’s said those silly things about providing and all… I’ve already been proposed to once, thank you dear for that, and I thought I might give him the chance. You could tell he didn’t expect it,” Aziraphale laughed to herself.

“He really didn’t! It helped that I surprised him with the news from Frederick—you really are a marvel, my dear.” Aziraphale paused and gathered her thoughts, trying to maintain her joy. “Where was I? Yes, I surprised Crowley greatly. He was so worried about keeping his job and you know I can’t bear to see the people I love suffer like that. And then I sprung the question on him!”

“I wonder if it felt the same as you did?” She cast her mind back to the night Georgie proposed. He had always seemed calm and put together, even then.

“The excitement, the nervousness. My goodness my hands were shaking—although I held it together better than Crowley did. He fell off the sofa and into my arms! And then—get this—he was preparing to do the same thing and pulled a ring box out of _his_ pocket. Have you ever heard of such a thing, a double proposal? It really was quite wonderful, even if we were sobbing like a pair of ninnies.”

“You would have loved it,” her eyes turned misty. God, she missed him.

“You would love him, and how much he loves me. I adore him. I really do, Georgie. I even, well. I can hear you saying “good girl” just about now, thank you very much. I got him to stay the night and before you think it no, not like that. We were quite drunk on the champagne I bought and I wouldn’t have him driving. He stayed in the spare, which I have to admit I was a little disappointed by, but he’s quite. Well, if not a gentleman then certainly a very considerate person.” Aziraphale nodded to herself. “Yes, most considerate.”

“And he does the crossword, so there. I know how much you loved sudoku but really, they’re the same numbers every time…” It was almost as if she could hear Georgie’s voice, sometimes, when she replayed these conversations. Her heart ached and was filled with elation, which was a strange combination indeed.

“You taught me a lot, you know. I know you don’t like it when I go on like this but I see a lot of myself in Crowley—I don’t want to even imagine the innuendo you’re making right now,” she shook her head as she tried to get back on topic.

“You know, how I was at the beginning? About things? I recognise the fear of being open in him and I only hope I nurture him as best as you did me. I pray that I will. Lord knows he deserves far more care and kindness than he’s received.” Aziraphale wiped at her now damp eyes.

“It’s been a whirlwind! Crying and laughing from one moment to the next. But they’re happy tears, mostly. I miss you terribly, of course. But I know you would want me to be happy and Crowley makes me so incredibly happy, Georgie. And I’ll be his _wife,_ how lucky am I?”

“I’m not thinking about the wedding just yet—we have so much to discuss and get sorted and you know how much I can fuss. Yes, I can admit it when I want to,” she said, rolling her eyes. “For now I’m just enjoying being engaged. Being in love. Thank you, Georgie. Without you… none of this would have been possible. My future wouldn’t have been possible. I love you so very much my dear.”

She sat there in silence for a few moments, alone with her thoughts.

Sometime later Aziraphale rose to stand and patted the headstone, now warm from the sun, twice before she departed. As she walked away she dabbed at her face some more with her handkerchief and smoothed down her skirts. In the shade of a tree she took out her compact to check how her makeup had survived the crying. It was passable enough for the bus journey home.

As she continued walking, a song that she hadn’t heard in quite a long time suddenly came to mind. _The world will always welcome lovers… as time goes by._ She smiled, knowing that Georgie would always be with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you know, ATGB was written for my NaNoWriMo project and that means the last few chapters are pretty rough because I ran out of steam as I tried to reach 50k. Right now they are not up to the standard of the rest of the fic and I need to take some time to make them the best that I can. Also I'm getting pretty tired, I've been editing and posting this every week for two months and I've done a lot of writing lately, so I'm taking next week off. I don't want to burn myself out because then I just won't write at all. 
> 
> I know some of you may be upset because you look forward to the weekly updates and I'm very thankful that I can bring a little joy to your life, but I don't think I can handle any kind of guilt right now so please do keep that in mind when commenting. If you need something to tide you over I've been working on a list of similar fic recs to add when this main fic is done. You can access them in my bookmarks [here](https://archiveofourown.org/bookmarks?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&bookmark_search%5Bsort_column%5D=bookmarkable_date&include_bookmark_search%5Btag_ids%5D%5B%5D=52118682&bookmark_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&bookmark_search%5Bother_bookmark_tag_names%5D=&bookmark_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&bookmark_search%5Bexcluded_bookmark_tag_names%5D=&bookmark_search%5Bbookmarkable_query%5D=&bookmark_search%5Bbookmark_query%5D=&bookmark_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&bookmark_search%5Brec%5D=0&bookmark_search%5Bwith_notes%5D=0&user_id=teatales) but I will be making a proper tumblr post and author's note once Chapter 11 is posted. 
> 
> Take care x


	10. POSTING UPDATE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not the real Chapter 10 (unfortunately) but an update as to when I'll be posting next (tldr: eventually)

**Q: When will the next chapters be posted?**

A: I can't say, unfortunately. Hopefully soon, but I can't give myself or anyone a specific date.

**Q: Why don't you know?**

A: I am way closer to burnout than I thought I was when I took a break after last chapter. Also as I mentioned when reviewing the last two chapters, they weren't as polished as I wanted them to be. So I need to write more (rather than just edit) at a time when I can't actually write or do a lot of things I want to, and I'm not sure when I _will_ be able to write. There's also lots of IRL stuff going on as always, mental illness, same old same old.

**Q: Didn't you say this fic was done?**

A: I thought it was, or close to being done, anyway. I wrote this for NaNoWriMo 2020 and hadn't taken a proper look at the last chapters and the fic as a whole. There will probably be four more chapters now, rather than two, because I really rushed the original ending. I want to give Aziraphale and Crowley (as well as all of you) the story they deserve and that includes more time spent on intimacy and Crowley's gender, and less having the chapters go engagement-moving in together-wedding (which was the original plan). I can use some of the existing sections, but a lot of it has to be reworked or written entirely from scratch. 

**Q: So the fic is being abandoned?**

A: Nope! I am on AO3 and Tumblr multiple times a day and I'm pretty much always reachable, so the fic is being paused rather than abandoned. I want to get back to writing as much as you want to keep reading ATGB (seriously, I reread all of your comments all the time) but it will take some time before I am able to do that.

**Q: Aren't you posting other fics right now?**

A: Yep, I'm currently posting some drabbles for Femslash February. I wrote all of them at the same time as I was writing chapters 9 and 10, before I got close to hitting this wall. Like I said, the ending of ATGB needs more work and I want to be happy with what I post, and it's going to take a lot more time and effort than posting some completed, mostly plot-less drabbles. I promise I'm not secretly sitting on a completed chapter right now - if I had stuff to post, I would! If I post other works that _aren't_ ATGB before I get to posting Chapter 10 proper, it's because it's what I'm capable of. I want to work on ATGB - there are lots of exciting things I have in mind - but sometimes certain fics may be easier for me to handle. 

Thank you to everyone who has been reading ATGB these past couple of months. A very special thank you to everyone who has left comments, particularly the lovely folks on last chapter who reminded me to take care of myself and to take the time I need. I really do appreciate your support. I wish this wasn't necessary, but I do need to look after myself (particularly with... everything, and semester starting fairly soon) and I want to make this fic the best that it can be. And to do that I need a break. I hope you can understand. 

x teatales

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are wonderful, I would love it if you left one (or both!) 
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @ineffable-anathema and you can share the fic [here](https://ineffable-anathema.tumblr.com/tagged/atgb)


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